


The Other Woman

by Shay_Fae



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Age Difference, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Cheating, Growing Up, Love at First Sight, Multi, Mycroft Being a Good Brother, Unilock (sorta), but sometimes it's funny, hardcore friendship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-09
Updated: 2014-08-21
Packaged: 2017-12-26 02:04:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 18
Words: 83,357
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/960287
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shay_Fae/pseuds/Shay_Fae
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><br/>"This is what you do now, is it? Seduce men away from their wives?"</p><p>Or The Growing Up of Mycroft Holmes<br/>.<br/></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place in the "Love Me with the Lights Off," universe, but you don't have to have read that one to get this. Promise :)

The first time Mycroft met Greg Lestrade, he was tired, covered in grass, and on the arm of a closeted lesbian.

It was glaringly obvious from the guilty looks on his teenage brother and Harry’s brother’s faces that the ridiculously attractive detective was here for them and not, by some miracle, looking for love in all the right places. So he sent Harry inside with a soft word and turned on the man.

“Ah Inspector, how can I help you?” he asked politely. The man’s position was obvious from his clothes and demeanor, but Mycroft wasn’t one to miss the chance at a good show. Unlike Sherlock, who reveled in dramatics, he simply _was_ dramatic. Constantly.

“How did you-“ the detective struggled and then the poor man saw the sense in giving up. What Sherlock must have put him through. “You’re Sherlock’s father?”

“Brother,” he corrected, wincing inwardly. “I’m afraid our mother is currently preoccupied.”

“And your father?” he pressed.

“More permanently preoccupied,” Mycroft excused, wishing, not for the first time, that he actually had any idea where the senior Holmes was. “Mycroft Holmes.”

“Inspector Lestrade,” the detective said, shaking the offered hand.

“Now what seems to be the trouble?” Mycroft asked, glancing at the boys who were doing their best innocent faces. John looked about as guilty as a bluebird. Sherlock looked like he’d just come back from a murder. Mycroft sighed internally. What he wouldn’t give for just one normal day.

He couldn’t claim that life had gotten _less_ interesting since the Watson children and their mother had come to stay with them for the summer. Victoria Holmes seemed unbearably happy since she’d been joined by Cynthia Watson, a friend from years ago. But he had held out hope that seventeen-year-old John might help keep the slightly younger Sherlock out of trouble, instead of joining in with reckless abandon.

Lestrade shot the boys a glance, shoved a letter in his coat pocket, and stepped back. “No trouble,” he said, voice steady. “Misunderstanding was all. Good day, sorry to have bothered you.” And with that he strode back to his car.

 _And I’m Queen,_ Mycroft thought snippily. He’d warned Sherlock that his habit of sending tips to the police would have consequences, but that didn’t mean the little brat would listen.

Said brat turned on Mycroft as soon as the Inspector’s car had pulled out of the gravel driveway.

“He’s married,” Sherlock said pointedly.

“Well aware,” Mycroft said, turning around to head inside and schooling his face into casual disregard. The only thing more annoying than a little brother was having an annoying little brother who could read people in a single glance.

“With two kids!” Sherlock shouted after him.

“That’s lovely,” Mycroft called over his shoulder, meeting up with Harry in the hallway and heading inside to see about a shower. Sherlock shouldn’t have bothered. To Mycroft Holmes, those two sentences were as good as _Challenge Accepted._

                                                                                               

* * *

 

Harry Watson may not have had the deductive powers of a Holmes, but she had rather good ears and the sense to recognize Sherlock was rarely wrong.

“You were giving him a look, weren’t you?” she teased. They were sitting on Mycroft’s bed, both freshly showered and changed, in their usual positions; Mycroft lounged back against the backboard, long legs stretched in front of him, and Harry sat by with her legs curled up beneath her like a big cat, grinning at him.

“What look?” he asked innocently. It was times like this that he marveled at the oddity of a Harry Watson in his bed. If you’d asked Mycroft two months ago who his closest friends were, he would have struggled to come up with one he genuinely liked. And here sat a girl, dwarfed in an oversized Beatles tee and worn denim shorts, grinning at him maniacally.

He hadn’t expected to like the girl, after Mummy had declared her intention of making them “playmates.” She was nothing short of his polar opposite outwardly, all rough edges, short hair and loud mouth. But inwardly, the troubled girl could have been his twin, a mix of confused sexuality, big dreams and floating loneliness. They’d clicked like puzzle pieces.

“You know, the _fancy a shag_ look?” she laughed, nudging him with a big toe. “You like him.”

“You heard Sherlock, he’s married,” Mycroft gave up pretending he didn’t like the man. It was useless to hide things from Harry anyway. Not in the way it was useless to hide things from Sherlock, because he deduced them, but because he _liked_ telling Harry things.

She raised an eyebrow. “And you’re a bit of a whore, so that shouldn’t stop you,” she winked and Mycroft flushed.

Uni had proved to be amongst the most fertile of training grounds in terms of sex. If he bothered taking the time, he couldn’t even name all the boys he’d shagged on a mad conquest to figure out his sexuality and then simply because he _could_. He didn’t do it for the sex generally, though that was pleasant enough. It was the challenge, the thrill of figuring out just who and what character to play to get every attractive male on his knees. Harry said he had a power complex. She was very, very right.

“You are a terror,” he asserted and she smiled.

“Aw, thank you,” she chirped, unfurling herself and hopping down from the bed. The girl was ridiculously short in the most endearing way, and he soon joined her as she padded to the door. “I’ll give up now, because I know you’re only being contrary. Now feed me.”

                                                                                                        ***

He’d walked in on her crying two days into her stay at the Holmes mansion. He hadn’t meant to, hadn’t heard the small snuffles from within and deduced, and so he’d been left standing there awkwardly as she’d noticed him in the doorway.

 _“Shit,”_ she’d murmured, reaching at another tissue. “ _Mycroft, right? Sorry about this.”_

She’d looked ridiculously fragile, all bundled up in waves of blankets on the large bed and Mycroft Holmes had never been adept at comforting people. He’d walked over silently, coming to the edge of the bed, just close enough to touch.

He hadn’t said anything, hadn’t offered useless platitudes because he himself abhorred them and he had a feeling this strange, tough girl would too. He’d simply sat there until her sobs abated to mere whimpers and she’d curled herself tighter in her blankets.

 _“Why are you still here?”_ she’d asked gently after a moment and he’d really looked at her. She had the most fantastic blue eyes, like waves smashed against rocks, and he could see something hidden far beyond them. _A powerful spirit_ his mind had supplied and he’d laughed inwardly at the ridiculousness of the sentiment.

 _“I hate crying alone,”_ he’d offered and she’d taken his hand and squeezed.

She’d told him, two nights later as they sat in the garden, playing with blades of grass, about her father. About his alcoholic rages and beatings. About his suicide. And she’d cried again but this time Mycroft had enveloped her in awkward arms and let her cry into his chest.

But it was too late then. They were already friends.

                                                                                                

* * *

 

The Watson’s left two days after the inspector had turned up on their doorstep and Mycroft had never been sadder to see a human being go away.

Mummy and Cynthia Watson were already making promises for another summer but Harry was digging the heels of her combat boots into the gravel, shy for the very first time since they’d met.

He hadn’t realized just how badly he’d miss Harry Watson until he tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear and murmured softly to her.

“UCL’s only about an hour from Cambridge,” he promised. He’d looked it up the night before. It was two trains and a bus too, but that part needn’t be mentioned. Besides, he had a car.

She smiled up at him, memories welling up beneath the surface. _Late talks in the garden, shopping in town, deep thoughts beneath a duvet, swimming in the lake at dawn-_ and he paused before hugging her. He wasn’t one for hugging really, but he’d taken to making exceptions for Harry.

“We’ll have lunch once a week,” she decided and he grinned into her hair. “Besides, I’m going to need updates on your conquest of the inspector.”

“You’ll mostly get updates on my conquest of the other interns,” he laughed and she grinned back, just as happy. He was interning at the Ministry for half the semester. Harry didn’t need to know about his plan to quickly make waves, he wasn’t about to stay an intern for the whole six months. Even for all he told the girl, there were some things you couldn’t say without frightening ordinary people. And the Watsons were gloriously ordinary.

He watched the first true friend he’d ever made pull away with Mummy on one side and Sherlock on the other. It wasn’t until after Mummy had made some offhand comment on how Sherlock and John had spent most of the summer snogging each other and headed inside that Sherlock turned on him.

“You got along particularly well with Harry,” he noted.

“It would seem so,” Mycroft said, surprised himself. Though “getting along” didn’t seem to cover it. He’d come out to the girl after knowing her a month. They were a bit more than “getting along.”

“How?” Sherlock asked, honestly puzzled. “You don’t have  _friends_  Mycroft.”

“Neither do you,” Mycroft reminded him but Sherlock wasn’t done.

“She’s so very different from you,” he pointed out.

Mycroft let his gaze rest on his younger brother for a long time before answering. “Broken things attract each other Sherlock. Always looking for their missing pieces.”

“You’re not broken,” Sherlock said and wasn’t that just hysterical, that naïve belief that just because he was older, he had any of his shit together.

 “I need to get back to Uni,” Mycroft said rather than traumatize the boy with the truth, and went inside to pack.            

Harry texted him from the car. _Here’s to a year of adventure_. He smiled at the phone and wondered when was the last time he’d looked forward to Uni.             

                                                                                                        ***

Harry had told him about her struggle with alcoholism, three weeks into July.

 _“I hate how it controls me,”_ she’d confessed, tearing at her cuticles as they sat in the garden. Sherlock and John had claimed the lake as theirs and so they’d picked the spot behind the hydrangeas, hiding in plain sight. ” _It makes things easier though. Less thinking.”_ She’d laughed bitterly then, glancing up at him.

 _“That must sound bizarre to you, not wanting to think,_ ” she joked and he’d stared at her softly.

 _“It’s all I’ve ever wished for,_ ” he’d admitted, tucking a flower behind Harry’s ear absentmindedly. _“Ever since I realized what a curse it was._ ”

But Mycroft was a classic older brother and he couldn’t help wanting to mother, as annoying as it was.  _“I could be your sponsor,”_ he’d suggested and Harry had chuckled.

 _”I didn’t say I wanted to quit_ ,” she’d teased but they’d linked pinkies anyways, a promise of sorts.

                                                                                                

* * *

 

Being a senior had its perks. The freshmen who practically threw themselves in his bed were one. The obscene amounts of free time were another. Harry was an obvious first. But his internship, surprisingly, was a lovely second.

He was technically filing and making tea. What he actually was doing was solving people’s problems, discreetly and with no credit. By the end of his first week, nearly everyone at the branch knew if you were having a problem with something, ask the ginger-haired intern. By his second week, he had an empire of favors owed.

“How is the internship going?” Harry asked him over an ice-tea, fiddling with a plastic straw. They’d fallen in love with a small café in central London, claiming a table on the street, right beneath the awning and lovingly nestled in a corner. They didn’t even have to ask for it anymore, bless the waiters.

“Wonderful,” Mycroft grinned. “But you don’t really care, do you?”

“Not a whit,” Harry answered, stealing a cucumber from his salad with quick, slender fingers. “Now tell me about the seduction of the inspector.”

He hadn’t done much in the two months since he’d gotten back to Cambridge. One of his “bosses” at the internship worked in partnership with the Yard and he knew he could ask some casual questions and get away with it. But it hadn’t seemed worth the bother, not since Jeremy Marks in his Economics class had started giving him appraising looks across the room. Harry was not appeased.

“You’re lying to yourself,” she goaded. “If I know you at all Mycroft, and I dare say I do, you just don’t want to try because you’re scared he might be the first one you fail to catch.”

Damn the girl, but she was right. He forgot sometimes that people could often read each other, even without the talents he and Sherlock had. “And I’m sure you have some gloriously well-developed plan,” he scoffed and she smirked.

“Get him drunk and fuck him,” she offered. “Worked for me and Susie.”

“Ah yes,” he sighed, trying not to smile. “How is Susie?”

“You’ve fallen behind, Mycroft doll,” she chided, sipping her tea. “Susie was weeks ago. We’re into Rachel now.”

Mycroft struggled to recall. “The one with the intelligence of a house fly and the tits of a-“

“-porn star, yes her,” Harry finished, smiling.

“She sounds darling,” Mycroft tried politely.

Harry laughed. “She’s as entertaining as a shoe when she’s not on her back. Luckily, she’s got the stamina of a racehorse, bless her soul.”

Mycroft just shook his head. “Whatever would I do without your witty conversation Harry?” he groaned, sinking back into his chair, posture be damned. Harry did that to a person.

“Wither away with boredom,” she suggested and he figured she was probably right.

                                                                                                               ***

But the seed was planted, no doubting it now, and when one of the runners needed someone to take some files over to the yard, Mycroft volunteered.

Lestrade had a small cubical in a larger office, working under some detective inspector named Gregson, and it was child’s play to time his exit and elevator ride to coincide with Lestrade’s lunch break.

As the steel doors closed in front of them, Lestrade turned on him, sizing him up. “Mr. Holmes?” he asked carefully, placing a face to a memory and Mycroft smiled, turning around to face him.

“Mycroft please, inspector,” he brushed off, shaking hands. “Lovely to see you again.”

“Do you-“ Lestrade tried, searching his memory, “work here?”

Mycroft laughed, carefully timed to be casual, “Oh no, I’m just bringing some files over from the Department offices,” he explained and quickly moved on. He was running out of time. “My brother giving you any more trouble?”

Lestrade raised his eyebrows. “Who said he was giving me trouble?” he pushed, forced casual.

Mycroft grinned. “He’s my brother, inspector. If he’s not causing trouble, we worry.”

Lestrade laughed. “Here here. No, he’s a good kid. He’s been…helping us actually,” he admitted carefully, not sure what to expect, but Mycroft had the upper hand.

“Better helping you than fighting you, trust me,” he conceded and Lestrade seemed to realize Mycroft knew exactly what Sherlock was doing for the inspector.

“I have to ask,” Lestrade pushed as the elevator signaled their floor, “is he always this…”

“-manipulative, impulsive, stubborn, infantile?” Mycroft suggested.

“-right?” Lestrade finished and they both burst into easy laughter. He paused at the entrance of the MET, looking the college student over. It was a pleasant sort of looking over; the kind Mycroft had given him on that porch two months ago.

Testing his luck, Mycroft went for the kill. “We should talk some time,” he said casually, as though it wasn’t the purpose of this whole small-talk ritual, “now that you’re working with my brother.”

Lestrade looked up. “What, now?” he asked and Mycroft prayed to god he wasn’t just imagining the hopeful lilt in the man’s question.

“No, no, we’re both working now,” he said casually, leaning back against the doorframe. “But some other time, definitely.” He hated this part, the fake casual part, but if there was one thing Mycroft knew it was how to play people.

“Yes, of course,” Lestrade smiled back, more relaxed.

Mycroft detached himself and moved to leave. “See you around, inspector,” he breezed as he started walking.

“It’s Greg!” Lestrade called out from behind him and he turned. The man was still standing by the doorway and he lowered the hand he’d reached out with awkwardly.

“Call me Greg,” he finished and Mycroft practically beamed at him.

“See you around Gregory,” he corrected and walked away, promising himself a call to Harry later.

                                                                                                

* * *

 

It would be another month before he saw Gregory again.

In that month: Harry relapsed twice, met a lovely girl named Clara in her law class, and came out to her family.

That had been the hardest thing Mycroft had ever had to do; sit next to Harry as she came out to her mom, squeezing the living daylights out of his hand. They both knew it would go well; the Watson’s were far too loving to take it badly. But it had been nerve-wracking nonetheless.

Mycroft had been the one to encourage her to come out actually, over their weekly lunch dates. _You know they love you,_ he’d pushed, dropping his cucumbers onto her plate before she could snatch them away. _They won’t even care, I promise you_.

But in the end it had been Clara that forced the reaction. The girl had been out since fourth grade and wanted to meet Harry’s family.

 _“And she’s perfect My,_ ” Harry had gushed over the phone, both of them lying in their dorm rooms, sprawled out on their beds. _“She’s smart and clever and she has the same sense of humor as me. She even loves EastEnders. I can’t lose her_.”

And so that had been it. She’d come out and now Clara was scheduled to go over the Watson’s for Christmas dinner next month.  So it was no wonder the full time student/intern hadn’t had time for his favorite challenge.

Oh, of course he _saw_ him, across the hall or table whenever he was sent over to the Met, or a yarder had to take care of something in one of the offices. They’d chat, about the weather, Sherlock, rugby or whatever was going on. Sometimes Mycroft would pass on a hint that the inspector might’ve been interested in. But he didn’t have a full length conversation with the man until he ran into him in a pub.

Pubs were not something Mycroft generally did but he was on a mission for Harry, instructing bar owners not to sell to her under any circumstances. Clara had also proved a fantastic get-sober motivator and Mycroft was doing his best to facilitate. So running into Greg Lestrade at The Forester was a complete and happy accident.

“Mycroft,” Lestrade called over, grinning. He wasn’t drunk, not by a long shot, and the smile went straight to Mycroft’s gut. “Come sit with me.”

“Gregory, this a surprise,” he excused, coming over and settling on a seat next to him. “How are you?”

“Can’t complain,” he said, motioning a bartender over. “Though your brother’s driving me up the wall. You?”

“Good thanks-“ Mycroft started but was cut off as Gregory ordered him a beer. “Oh no, that’s not necessary,” he excused but the man waved him away.

“Nonsense, it’s on me,” he said as the bartender walked away. “I owe you a drink away. That tip you gave me about the Henley case saved my ass.”

“It was my pleasure,” Mycroft brushed off as a beer was slid into his hands. “Consider it payment for keeping my brother entertained.”

“The man is a genius, I’ll give him that,” Lestrade laughed into his pint. “But a bloody menace.”

“You can imagine him as a child,” Mycroft offered and Lestrade pulled a face.

“No I can’t,” he shuddered. “Bloody hell, that must have been awful.”

Mycroft grinned. “You ever hear the story of when he decided he wanted a puppy?”

He hadn’t meant to spend the whole evening in a pub getting progressively drunker with Lestrade and exchanging Sherlock stories, but he certainly wasn’t complaining about the turn of events. Eventually, the stories moved into talk of what Mycroft was studying and then into world politics in general. Lestrade was surprisingly knowledgeable in diplomacy, considering his career choice and the fact that he was rather shit-faced. Mycroft was suitably impressed.

The bar filled and emptied and still they sat, laughing over beer and whiskey and realizing they had an absurd amount in common. Talk was effortless between them and as they staggered out into the street past midnight, it seemed only natural to keep at it.

“-and so then the idiot comes back with two search warrants and still no arrest. So we just gave up,” Greg laughed as they hailed a cab. “Poor bloke tries, he really does, but he’s about as useful as Dimmock.”

“They’ll make you detective inspector soon enough,” Mycroft predicted, watching as a cab pulled up. “After Gregson gets promoted.”

“I can never tell if you have insider information or you’re just psychic,” Greg teased, leaning forward to tell the cabbie his address.

“Both,” Mycroft smiled and the inspector turned back to him.

“Where are you headed?” he asked, opening the cab door and swaying a bit as he grabbed onto Mycroft’s offered hand. The contact burned but neither man pulled away,

King’s Cross was on the other side of London. “Right near you, actually,” he lied and Greg’s eyes beamed.

“Let’s share a cab then,” he offered. “Nonsense,” he pushed as Mycroft moved to object. “Get in and shut up you proper git.”

The cab was too small, with both of them pressed against each other. They both realized, absentmindedly, that they could move over and make space between them, but neither man particularly wanted to. Harry’s comment about getting the inspector drunk and snogging him came back in full force and Mycroft’s drunk brain refused to push it aside.

Greg was looking at him, with the look of a man half starved, and it was doing unpleasantly pleasant things to Mycroft’s gut. “You have-“ Greg tried before wiping a stray bit of foam from the corner of Mycroft’s mouth. Mycroft would have been horrified if Greg didn’t leave his hand there a beat too long, warm and promising.

“Thanks,” Mycroft whispered, unsure as to why and Greg took his hand back, placing it awkwardly in his lap.

The cab pulled to a stop and both men stared at each other. “This is me,” Greg said unnecessarily and Mycroft nodded. It was a lovely house, promising two kids and a housewife, everything Sherlock deduced. Mycroft didn’t give a flying fuck at the moment.

“My-“ Greg stared before Mycroft attacked him, kissing him with as much passion as his drunk brain could manage. It was short; a bruising of lips, a nip of teeth, the promise of tongue and a quick grope and then Mycroft was shoving the panting man from the cab.

“Call me,” he ordered, closing the door on the sight of the disheveled inspector before turning to the cabbie. “King’s Cross,” he instructed and it wasn’t until the cab had sped away that he remembered Greg didn’t have his number.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was supposed to be a oneshot. It's not going to be a oneshot. I'm thrilled.


	2. Chapter 2

“And that’s it?” Harry shrieked over her usual ice tea. “You just snogged him and left?”

It was getting cold in London, winter sinking its claws into the poor inhabitants of the city and Mycroft and Harry had taken refuge at an indoor table; close enough to the window to feel like they were still outside.

“I’m seducing a man away from his wife and your complaint is that I’m not doing it fast enough?” Mycroft scoffed, raising one eyebrow.

“Yes!” Harry cried, flinging her hands up in exasperation. “You had your hands down the trousers of a drunk, horny and bloody gorgeous man and you let him walk away? Who are you and what have you done with my darling Mycroft?”

 He laughed, poking at his salad. “He needs to make the first move. If this goes pear-shaped, I refuse to go down as the seducer-“

“-too late,” Harry murmured and he vehemently ignored her.

“I’ve expressed my interest. The ball is in his court,” he finished, taking a vindictive bite of greens. God, want he wouldn’t do for a steak. 

“Except that he doesn’t have your number,” Harry reminded him, motioning a waiter over.

Mycroft shrugged. “I see him often enough. I’m sure I’ll find a minute to give it to him.”

“A minute that could be better spent snogging,” Harry maintained as a frazzled blonde woman in a black apron came over. “One slice of cheesecake, two forks,” she ordered and the woman wrote it down as Mycroft protested.

“Harry, you know I’m-“

“Oh come off it,” she pushed as the waitress walked away. “I’ve never seen someone glare so hatefully at a salad in my life. I’ll eat most of it, promise.”

He gave up. It was always the easiest, and safer, option with Harry. “How’s Clara?” he tried instead. Nothing pacified Harry like her favorite topic of conversation.

Right on schedule, Harry beamed. “She’s coming over tonight. We’re watching a movie.” She thanked the waitress as the woman set down the plate of cheesecake. “I don’t even care if we shag. I just like spending time with her, Mycroft. Dear god, I’ve gone barmy.”

“You’ve fallen in love,” Mycroft posited, picking up a fork reluctantly. Oh, who was he kidding? He bloody loved Harry for this.

Harry shivered. “Don’t say the L word. It’s only been a month.” She took a bite, closing her eyes at the taste. It was moments like this when Mycroft could understand why people called Harry beautiful. She wasn’t classically beautiful: ridiculously short with a questionable fashion sense and butchered hair. But she let her every emotion grace her face and it made her seem more _alive_ than regular people, bursting with energy.

“In which you’ve seen her near every night,” he reminded her and she shushed him, grinning maniacally.

“Oh sod it,” she laughed, nudging him under the table with her foot. “I really like her, alright? Now eat another bite, you skinny loon.”

She was the most ridiculous person Mycroft had ever befriended. But he loved her all the same and so he did. The cheesecake was heavenly.

 

* * *

 

The next time he saw Greg was two weeks before Christmas.

 It was one of those late nights when he was quite sure he was the only intern, if not the only _person_ , still in the office. He had been quietly hacking into his boss’s computer for nearly an hour, memorizing as much as he could. Not for any illegal purposes, of course. Just for security.

He turned his head to look at the clock and blinked at the red numbers reading 23:00. Stretching, he got up and walked his cover story, a pile of signed papers, over to the main conference room to be sorted. He hadn’t expected to see anyone in the office at all, let alone the very object of his current fixation, bent over the table and scribbling out last-minute notes.

He must have made a noise, opening the door, because Greg spun around, already mid-sentence.

“I’m so sorry, I didn’t know anyone else was-“ he froze upon realized just _who_ stood in the doorway. “Mycroft?”

“Evening Gregory,” Mycroft smiled good-naturedly, coming in. “What are you doing here?”

The inspector flushed. “Oh, I was supposed to leave something on Michaels’ desk. But then I lost track of time and till I ran it over here- and then I realized I forgot to add something-“ he paused, glancing up at Mycroft’s amused smile.

“I’m a bit of a mess is what I’m saying,” Greg finally finished, smiling weakly.

Mycroft walked further in, purposefully bypassing Lestrade’s personal space and going about what he’d come there to do. “We all are around the holidays,” he tried, sorting out papers into pigeon-holes. There was a meeting scheduled for tomorrow and this was the hole Michaels liked to keep his notes in. With any luck, not that Mycroft believed in luck, these papers might just get read by the right man.

“Right, yeah,” Greg said awkwardly, and Mycroft could practically _feel_ him staring, eyes burning holes through his clothes.

“You never called me,” Mycroft said suddenly, all casualty and disregard. He heard Greg shift uncomfortably behind him and he turned around, in time to hear the inspector say flusteredly,

“I don’t have your number.”

“I realized,” Mycroft admitted, leaning back against the pigeon-holes to watch the man. “You could have asked someone though; nearly everyone in the department has my mobile number.”

“I’m married,” Lestrade said suddenly, all in a rush as though he hadn’t been sure whether to say it or not. Oh, the man had thought Mycroft hadn’t _known._ But Mycroft just smiled indulgently.

“Not happily,” he commented and Greg’s gaze turned sharp instantly. It was a bit unnerving and not at all attractive. Not at bloody all. _Focus Mycroft._

“Who said anything about it not being a happy marriage?” the inspector asked, voice brisk.

Mycroft’s eyes skimmed his body. “You,” he explained gently, not meaning to offend. “Everything from the dust under your shirt collar to the scratches on the insoles of your shoes to the state of your wedding ring. All signs of nervous fidgeting, bad sleep, spousal disregard and unhappiness.”

Greg blinked at him. “That was brilliant,” he said after a moment.

“Thank you-“ Mycroft started but Greg cut him off.

“Not any of your fucking business, but brilliant, really,” he said but there was no anger to his voice, just soft wonderment.

“It didn’t hurt that you kissed me back in the cab,” Mycroft added and the man colored.

“Look,” Greg started but Mycroft really did not want to hear it. The one thing he abhorred, above all others, was pretending not to want something you craved. If you wanted something, you should have the balls to go for it, or so he’d always believed.

“I’m not holding a gun to your head,” Mycroft laughed softly, voice temperate. “Nobody’s forcing this. You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do.”

Greg swallowed noticeably and Mycroft took it as a good sign. “I just want you to know I like you,” he said honestly, stepping closer. “And I think you like me too. Correct me if I’m wrong.”

Greg’s silence spoke volumes.

Mycroft picked up a pen as he walked from the conference table. “If you ever change your mind,” he said, taking Greg’s hand gently in his own and turning it over, “this is my mobile number.” He scrawled the number out across the man’s palm, neat and visible. He would have to scrub it off in the office bathroom before going home. Or maybe his marriage was at the point where he and his wife didn’t bother keeping their infidelities from each other.

“You could also just text me, non sex-related,” the genius tried and Greg laughed clumsily, his hand still warm in Mycroft’s.

“I’d love to,” the inspector said suddenly and Mycroft’s heart leapt. There was a moment of frozen tension before Greg looked at the clock and startled.

“I really should be getting home,” he excused and Mycroft started to nod before something above them caught his eye. They’d migrated to the doorway and there, hanging innocuously, was-

“Mistletoe,” Mycroft pointed out, hanging above their heads. Greg looked up and then lowered his gaze back to Mycroft, hovering on his lips. There were a thousand ways this could go. Greg could laugh it off, could push him away, could blush and ignore it. And then they both moved.

This kiss was nothing like the kiss in the cab. Greg’s fingers wrapped around the base of his neck, cradling his skull, and their mouths met softly, leisurely, like they had all the time in the world. Two short, open-mouthed kisses with no tongue and a soft longing for more. And then Mycroft tilted his head a bit and they rather fell into each other, Greg’s back hitting the doorframe.

Greg’s other hand, which had been hovering at the bottom of Mycroft’s shirt, slipped under and ran across bare flesh. Mycroft nearly jerked and then recovered by looping his fingers through the belt loops on Greg’s trousers and pulling him closer. Greg nipped at the bottom of Mycroft’s lip, drawing it into his mouth and sucking on it a minute before coaxing Mycroft’s tongue into his own mouth, tangling themselves in a cacophony of senses.

When the broke off to breathe, foreheads rested against each other as they drew in shuddering breaths, Mycroft rather fancied he could see stars. He untangled them carefully, stepping back a moment before grinning at Greg and running a hand through his own disheveled hair.

“Merry Christmas Gregory,” he smiled before turning and walking out of the office, grinning like a madman into his fist the whole walk out.

 

* * *

 

 

When Mycroft was thirteen, he’d kissed the gardener’s son and had found the experience to be rather wet, disjointed, but not altogether unpleasant.

That same week, he’d kissed Megan Havisham’s daughter Riley for the sake of proper scientific data. It had hardly been a reputable or dependable group of subjects but it was enough for Mycroft to decide he rather preferred kissing boys to girls.

He’d known, in all of his Year Seven brilliance, that kissing boys was not something his parents would be particularly _happy_ about, least of all his father. The man hadn’t left yet, he wouldn’t for another year, and the elder Holmes was nothing if not a raging homophobe. And besides, none of the other little boys at Eton seemed interested in each other. No, Mycroft had decided, it was information best kept to himself.

When he’d discovered that magazine, stuffed beneath his baby bother’s bed, it had broken his heart into tiny fragments. Sherlock didn’t understand people; Sherlock couldn’t know that it was _wrong_ , that he would be bullied and beaten and hurt. And so it had fallen to him, like everything else had after their father left, to deliver the message.

_“You can’t tell anyone about this, Sherlock,”_ he’d said softly, sitting on the edge of Sherlock’s bed. They’d been closer back then, less like strangers but still not quite like brothers. _“People won’t like it, you already stand out.”_

And Sherlock, in all his brilliance, had sniffed, “ _Sod people_.”

He’d looked so lost, skinny and frail in oversized pyjamas, and there’d been nothing to do but to hug him, wrapping his arms around the fragile boy. Why, he wondered, had they been born so different from everyone else in all things?

_“If only we could Sherlock,”_ he’d whispered softly and Sherlock had let him hug him. He’d taken a vow, in that small moment, to keep his little brother safe, whatever that entailed.

He hadn’t known then that teenage Sherlock’s biggest problem would not be his sexuality but instead a lovely drug that started with an H…

                                                                                                ***

He walked into work nearly a week after the kissing scandal to hear laughter coming from Michaels, his boss in all things, office.

“That’s brilliant, I think one of our interns did too-“ he heard Michaels saying and then his voice called out, “Mycroft?”

Mycroft paused by the door. “Yes, sir?” he called back. He didn’t want to interrupt if Michaels was in a meeting.

“Come in here a second,” was the answer and Mycroft did, walking in through the open door. Michaels was at his desk, a boy sitting across from him. The boy had his back to Mycroft, so all the genius could see was black hair and an Eton uniform.

“Mycroft, you went to Eton, right?” Michaels asked and Mycroft nodded.

“A few years ago sir, ever since I was thirteen,” he answered, mildly confused.

Michaels smiled. “Thought so. This is Jim, he was just telling me he goes to Eton now. He’s interning at the offices across the street. Jim, this is Mycroft,” he introduced, and Mycroft’s blood froze.

The boy had turned around and was smiling up at him with wicked eyes. Mycroft knew those eyes, knew that face, from every time he’d had to drive up to Eton and collect a strung out, or overdosed, Sherlock. Sherlock had called him drug dealer once, but there’d been no concrete _proof-_

“Oh, but Mycroft and I know each other,” Jim said breezily, smile turning positively sinister and Mycroft had to hold back a shudder. “I’m in his brother’s class.”

“Oh,” Michaels answered, surprised. “I didn’t know you had a little brother, Mycroft. You’re a senior, Jim?”

The boy shook his head. “Only a junior, sir,” he answered, his voice the very sound of deference and obedience. Mycroft suddenly wanted a gun. Or maybe just Greg.

Michaels laughed. “You must be smart, kid. You and Mycroft both, couple of geniuses we have running around the office. Maybe I should send my son to Eton.”

“I’ll help Jim find the way out sir, if you’re done,” Mycroft offered, innocently, and Michaels nodded absentmindedly.

“Yes, yes, Jim was just bringing over some papers. Lovely meeting you, Jim,” Michaels said and Jim stood.

“You too, sir,” the boy answered and followed Mycroft from the room. They were silent the whole walk down the busy corridor but as they stood alone by the elevator, Mycroft turned on the boy.

“What are you playing at, coming here?” he hissed, keeping his voice low. Jim just smiled up at him. There was something hidden in that smile, somewhere behind those cold eyes, that hinted at madness.

“Whatever do you mean?” he asked, voice even. “I’m interning Mycroft, isn’t it obvious?”

“All I would have to do was say one word-“ Mycroft started menacingly but Jim cut him off.

“What are you going to do, tell them I’m a drug dealer?” Jim asked, curious. “On the word of _one_ student, whom you just _happen_ to be related to? I’m sure that will go perfectly.”

Mycroft schooled his face as he seethed under the surface. But Jim wasn’t done.

“The thing is Mycroft,” he smiled, as the elevator pinged behind them, “you don’t have enough power yet to stop me. And by the time you do,” he stepped into the elevator, “I’ll be powerful enough to run away.”

The doors began to close on the gleaming face of the boy, madman-in-training really, and all Mycroft could do was stare. “I’ll be sure to give Sherlock your regards,” he called out and Mycroft wanted to hit something.

His phone rang during lunch.

“I’m sorry about the short notice, Mycroft,” Mummy told him, voice perfectly unaffected. “But your aunt Helen is so abrupt with her plans-“

“I understand Mummy,” Mycroft said, because it was expected. “Christmas in France should be lovely.”

“I know you were looking forward to spending the holidays with the Watsons,” Mummy excused and he knew she was sad, even if her voice wasn’t reflecting it. She adored Cynthia in rather the same way he adored Harry. “Sherlock nearly threw a fit-“

“I’m sure,” Mycroft sighed. He’d have to call the boy. He knew Sherlock had managed to sneak away on his way home last Michaelmas to see John for a few hours, but he doubted it would sate the boy. He himself knew he’d be near collapse without his weekly lunches.

“I’ll send a car to bring you to the airport,” she suggested.

“No need, I’ll take a cab,” Mycroft reassured, fiddling with his pen. God, he was so much better than an intern.

“Very well,” Mummy said briskly and that was how all their conversations were, brisk and to-the-point. No prolonged _I love you_ s “See you soon.”

Mycroft hung up the phone and prompted texted Harry to check her train progress. He was getting fettuccini alfredo today for lunch; he dared say he rather deserved it.  

 

* * *

  

Harry and Mycroft met to exchange gifts over lunch two days before Mycroft left for France.

“I’m really nervous about her meeting Mum and John,” Harry confessed, stirring her tea with her straw. “What if she doesn’t like them? Or what if, more importantly, they don’t like her? I used to say I didn’t care what my family thought, but with Clara I do, you know?”

Mycroft nodded, not quite understanding. His own mother didn’t even know he was _gay_ , let alone the kinds of boys he’d been shagging. Then again, they were all rather intelligent. If there was something Mycroft abhorred, it was an uneducated shag.

 “We’ve only been dating what, like two and a half months?” Harry guessed and Mycroft did the math with a nod. “Why do I care so much about her, Mycroft? I was shagging Jenny for over four months and I never gave a rat’s arse about her.”

“I’ve said it once, and I’ll keep saying it until you believe me,” Mycroft sniffed, mortally offended. “You are in love.”

Harry waved him off with her hand. “Who woulda taken the iceman for such a romantic sap?” she teased.

“I’m hardly-“ Mycroft protested but Harry cut him off.

“Oh hush up and give me my present,” she demanded and Mycroft grinned, more than happy to comply; even if her delivery needed work.

He handed her the small box over their usual meals of salad and ice-tea, cucumbers mercilessly stolen. Harry looked particularly lovely, hair grown long enough to tuck behind her ears and nose tinged pink from cold. Sobriety was murder on her skin, but it had been healing slowly and he’d told her she looked beautiful as they’d hugged outside the café before heading inside. She’d punched his arm and blushed.

“Happy Christmas, Harry,” he said kindly as she unwrapped the box and pulled out a thin bracelet, silver with small emeralds.

“Bloody hell, Mycroft!” she cried out softly, holding in in her hands. “You can’t get me this!”

Mycroft was puzzled. “Why not?”  he asked, worried. Granted, he wasn’t an _expert_ on buying women presents, but he was sure Harry would love it. And he did not get people wrong.

“Because I spent twenty quid on your present!” she moaned and he relaxed. That, he could deal with.

 “Would it help if I said it wasn’t really that expensive?” he tried.

Harry leveled her eyes, “Would you be lying?” she asked, knowing him far too well, and he had to hold back a laugh. God, the woman was an experience.

“Yes,” he confessed and she threw her napkin at him. But she didn’t stop staring at the bracelet, and as he moved to put it on her, she held out her wrist without a word.

“Here,” she said quickly, pulling out a hand-wrapped package from her bag, blushing furiously. “It’s really stupid and I thought it was cute but really, it was twenty quid-“

“Harry,” he said firmly and she stopped, motioning zipping her lips. He smiled as he opened the wrapping paper. Inside was a snow globe with a small little café trapped inside, covered in falling fake snowflakes.

“I just thought, what with how busy you get and how hard you work, your desk could use a reminder of the people who love you enough to brave London traffic for you,” she offered and Mycroft, for the first time in his life, was speechless.

Wordlessly, he reached out and squeezed Harry’s hand, trying to explain how much this meant to him. She nodded and for a moment they were perfectly silent, hands clasped, realizing just how powerful the bond between them had become.

Then Harry grinned and the spell was over. “I taped a present for Lestrade to the bottom,” she mentioned and Mycroft turned the snow globe over.

Taped to the bottom was a condom, with the name _Gregory_ scrawled across the wrapper, complete with a little smiley face.

“Stay safe, you two,” Harry said, straight-faced, and Mycroft looked back up at her before they both burst into hysterical bouts of laughter, holding each other for support.

                                                                                                ***

Heathrow airport was nothing short of dank at three am, as they waited for their plane to board. Sherlock had been yammering into his phone for the past twenty minutes, complaining loudly to John, and it was driving the poor, sleep-deprived genius mad.

“Sherlock, lower your voice,” Mycroft groaned, sinking down into his seat, Mummy was the very picture of unruffled, sitting with her ankles crossed as she thumbed through a magazine. She was even wearing jewelry. Not even Mycroft dressed that well to fly.

Sherlock, in typical Sherlock style, not only ignored him but raised his volume, bemoaning the incoming horror that was Aunt Helen. It was too early in the morning for this.

“Sherlock, for gods sake, shut up,” Mycroft snapped as his phone buzzed in his pocket. It was an unknown number and just as his heart leapt to his throat with the possibilities, Sherlock snatched the phone from his hands.

Disoriented, it took Mycroft a minute to realize Sherlock was running away with his phone, a phone that may or may not have contained an incredibly sensitive text.

“Sherlock! Come back here!” Mycroft roared, running after him through the airport. Sherlock cackled madly, not getting off the phone, and not for the first time Mycroft wished he’d been given a normal brother.

“I am going to kill you so slowly, you beg for it!” Mycroft threatened as Sherlock jumped a row of seats effortlessly, the skinny git, and ran down the hall towards the shops. Their shoes skidded on the waxed floors and Mycroft hadn’t run this fast in ages, near out of breath but not close to slowing down.

“Boys! Control yourselves,” came the stern voice of Mummy from back by the terminal and both boys skidded to a stop, frozen at the tone. “Come back here immediately.”

The scariest thing about Mummy was that she never had to raise her voice to command complete respect. People often assumed Mycroft got his talent in diplomacy and politics from his father, the man worked in the UN for pity’s sake. But that assumption had never met Mummy Holmes.

Both boys sulked back like properly admonished puppies, heads hung. “Give Mycroft back his mobile,” Mummy demanded and Sherlock did, fingernails scratching into Mycroft’s palm as he handed it over.

“Now stop this ruckus before you completely shame the Holmes family name,” she admonished, as though that name was her own and not the one she’d taken from her horror of a husband. In many ways, she was far more Holmes than he was.

“Yes Mummy,” they said in unison and she nodded as the bell chimed.

“Excellent, we’re boarding,” she said, standing up neatly. “And Sherlock, your Aunt Helen is not a troll simply because she doesn’t enjoy insects in her home,” she critiqued.

“She kills bees Mummy!” the younger Holmes cried pitifully as they walked towards the doors. “Bees! Those creatures have more intelligence than she does!”

Mycroft sighed. It was going to be a rather long Christmas.

 

* * *

 

It wasn’t until after they’d settled in, after they’d hugged Aunt Helen and her husband and their three corgis whom Sherlock abhorred, and he’d set his stuff down in the guestroom, that he remembered the text.

He was sharing the guestroom with Sherlock. Aunt Helen seemed to share a mutual hatred with Sherlock, because she’d given them bunk beds. Sherlock had taken one look at the set-up and nearly cried at the indignity of it all.

“You take the bottom bunk,” he instructed Mycroft as he fished pyjamas out of his suitcase. “Don’t want you breaking the top and crashing down on me in the middle of the night.”

Mycroft had lost close to a stone. God, how he hated the brat.

So he was lying in the bottom bunk, Sherlock shifting restlessly above him, when he remembered the strange text on his phone. He turned over to grope for his mobile in his bag before he found it, opening the text carefully.

_Happy Christmas- Greg_

He could have died happy. _He texted me happy Christmas,_ he texted Harry, feeling like a teenage girl. For gods sake, three other texts from that day alone had been asking if they could see him again, in the most biblical sense.

_So text him it’d be a happier Christmas if he was in your bed_ , Harry suggested and he groaned, smiling into his covers.

“If you’re done searching for bakeries in France, can you please stop typing so some of us can go to sleep?” Sherlock complained above him and he shut his phone off, stuffing it in his bag. It wouldn’t due to text Greg at five am.

Christmas was not as disastrous as a Holmes family Christmas usually was; which meant that Sherlock only made Helen cry once, only two Corgis ended up puking on the rug, Uncle Tom only made three veiled comments about how their father had left them and Mummy was only the slightest bit drunk.

_A happy Christmas to you too, Gregory- MH_ Mycroft texted Greg as Sherlock waved his fork emphatically at Aunt Helen as he regaled the wonderful qualities of bees.

Greg texted back immediately. _How’s yours going?_

_You know Sherlock. How do you think Christmas with him goes?-MH_

There was beat before his mobile buzzed again. _Dear God, my dearest sympathies. Is the rest of your family as smart as you boys are?_

_My Aunt Helen is an artist. Sherlock is making her cry as we speak-MH_

Mycroft looked up to realize Sherlock was texting too. But at the sudden stop in typing from Mycroft’s end of the table, he picked his head up to grin ferally.

“When are the memorial services?” he asked Aunt Helen as she cleared the table.

Aunt Helen jerked reflexively. “For what, dear?” she asked cautiously.

“For Mycroft’s diet, naturally,” Sherlock replied and Uncle Tom nearly choked on his brandy as he snickered. Mycroft hated Christmas.

But Aunt Helen had no problem making it worse. “Don’t tease your brother about his weight, Sherlock,” she chided, like that made it remotely better.

“Don’t mind him, Aunt Helen, Sherlock is rather stuck emotionally in third year,” he explained, standing up. “Can I help you clear?”

“Oh that would be darling, thank you,” she smiled thankfully and Sherlock scowled at him across the table. That was their relationship: Sherlock insulted him, Mycroft made everyone love him, and Sherlock just got angrier. It was a rather vicious cycle.

His phone buzzed again as he was stacking dishes in the washer and he pulled it out.

_Threaten him with the Malik case if he doesn’t behave_ Greg offered and Mycroft could have kissed him. And not simply for the usual reasons.

_You have my eternal thanks. Is there any way I can ever repay you?-MH_ Mycroft texted back as he whispered the threat into Sherlock ear as the boy tried to feed the remaining healthy corgi chocolate to see if dogs were, in fact, deathly allergic to the treat.

Sherlock snapped back and the corgi frowned disappointedly on the floor, not realizing it had just been spared a terrible night. “You _have_ been texting Lestrade,” he hissed and Mycroft just smiled.

“Mycroft, I work with the man,” he cried, careful to keep his voice low. “Would it actually hurt you to respect boundaries for once in my life?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about, Sherlock,” Mycroft said casually, ruffling Sherlock hair because he knew the boy hated it. “I’m simply texting Harry.”

“John said Harry hasn’t picked up her mobile all day,” Sherlock shot back and Mycroft smiled internally, glad the dinner with Clara was going well.

“How odd,” Mycroft said simply, with a shrug, and Sherlock looked ready to pounce as Mycroft’s mobile buzzed once more. Careful not to let Sherlock see, Mycroft read the text.

_You could buy me a beer_ , Greg offered and Mycroft bit the insides of his cheeks to keep from grinning. Christmas had suddenly gotten leagues better.  


	3. Chapter 3

Mycroft had been waiting outside Fosters’ for a good half hour. After fiddling with his mobile for ten, checking and rechecking the message from Greg that read _Fosters’ at Eight?_ for fifteen, and then leaning back against the brick wall with his hands in his pockets for five, he contemplated leaving.

He had dressed particularly un-Mycroft for this thing, in a pair of jeans he hadn’t even known he owned and a button-down shirt under a jacket. His breath made small clouds in front of his face, and he could remember one winter vividly, when they’d both been small children, Sherlock had run outside the flat in London blowing out little puffs of smoke.

 _Look at me Mycroft, I’m a dragon_ he’d beamed, arms out on either side of him. Mycroft couldn’t remember what he’d said back. Sherlock had been four, their father still came home nights; things had been easier. It hadn’t mattered what he said to Sherlock back then.

Just as he was writing the whole thing off, pushing back against the wall, a figure approached him out of the London smog. Gregory looked near uncomfortable, hands jammed in his pockets, shoulders bent back against the cold.

When they were close enough to speak softly, Mycroft smiled. “Hey,” he breathed, white puff in Greg’s face. The inspector didn’t seem to mind though, staying where he was.

“Sorry I’m late, I got held up at work,” he excused and neither of them pointed out he could have texted Mycroft. They both knew it was a lie.

“Do you wanna go inside-“ Mycroft started but didn’t get the chance to finish as Gregory slammed his mouth against his own, lips frozen and chapped from the cold.

Greg practically devoured him, forgoing any and all kissing etiquette as he shoved Mycroft back against the brick wall, rolling them slightly so they ended up in the alley between the two buildings, hidden from view. The back of Mycroft’s head hit the wall with a sickening thud but the teen couldn’t care much as Greg’s hands grabbed at his skull, holdings his jaw as he snogged the living daylights out of him.

Mycroft broke it off with a frantic bid for air, pushing away to lean back as he panted. “Well then-“ he gasped, voice strained, and not only was Greg not even _breathing_ heavy, he looked ready to go round two.

“I’ve wanted to kiss you so badly, you have no idea,” Greg growled and it was like a shot to Mycroft’s groin, sending heat waves rolling in the pit of his stomach. The man looked near feral, eyes a pool of pure desire, and Mycroft could feel his clothes being ripped mentally from his body in that mind.

“I think I have some idea,” he laughed, reaching up one hand, which had gotten trapped between their bodies during what could only be described as a face battle, and cupping Greg’s face. “Relax, we have all night,” he promised, stroking one thumb across Greg’s cheekbone, looking him in the eye.

“Let’s just go get a drink, alright?” he offered and Greg nodded, looking a bit embarrassed. Mycroft quickly turned Greg’s head, kissing him softly for what seemed like eons, one open-mouthed kiss leading into another, lazy and undemanding. When it was over, Mycroft knew his eyes must look like Greg’s, all pupil and no iris.

“I missed you,” he confessed and Greg kissed him instead of answering. At this rate, they’d likely be there all night and shagging in an alley was no way to charm a man. So Mycroft untangled them gently and nudged Greg inside, leading them to a booth in the back. It was dark enough back there that Greg shouldn’t see anyone he knew but light enough that they could still talk.

And they tried to talk. A for effort, and all that. But somewhere between the first and second beer, Greg’s foot nudged its way progressively closer to Mycroft’s thigh. Mycroft, who still wasn’t quite recovered from that frontal assault in the alley, was not adequately prepared to deal with a foot that close to his crotch.

It didn’t help that Greg looked ridiculously shaggable, in his own pair of jeans and button-down. It was times like those that Mycroft had to physically remind himself that this man was a father. He was old enough- well he wasn’t quite old enough to be Mycroft’s father but old enough for this to be so wrong on so many levels. Even if he wasn’t married. A respectable inspector, shagging a college student. And that wonderfully perverted image just about did it for Mycroft.

“-I really hope you were right about that case in Bakersfield-“ Greg was saying but Mycroft cut him off without any mercy.

“Go to the bathroom,” he ordered, not breaking Greg’s gaze.

The man blinked. “What?” he asked, disoriented.

“Go to the bathroom, Gregory. Get into the handicap stall and wait for me,” Mycroft repeated and Greg’s eyes blew open like he’d just been sucker punched.

“Shit,” he whispered before nodding. “Okay, yeah, fucking-“ he got up, getting his napkin and a tenner down, before disappearing deeper into the bar, parting the crowd as he went.

Mycroft counted six minutes. Just enough for Greg to get properly aroused, imagining all the awful things Mycroft planned to do to him, and a bit over for him to get anxious. That was how Mycroft liked his men, heavily aroused and out of their depths. Power complex indeed.

He got up, settling the rest of their tab on the table, before walking into the bathroom. He let the front door close menacingly behind him before checking under all the stalls, knocking lightly on all the doors to find silence save for the handicap stall. Satisfied, he walked back to lock the bathroom door before tugging on the handicap stall door.

“Mycroft?” Greg asked nervously and then Mycroft was crowding him back against the wall, Greg’s back pressing painfully into the steel bar. The inspector swallowed, eyes never leaving Mycroft’s face, and Mycroft relished the look of pure shock he received as he slid to his knees, fingers trailing down Greg’s trouser legs as he went.

“Bloody hell, Mycroft,” he let out in a gasp, shooting from nervous to aroused in what had to be a horrifyingly painful three seconds flat.

“Go ahead Gregory, stare,” Mycroft taunted, fingers toying lazily with the man’s belt. “I bet you fantasize about this, me on my knees. My mouth around your cock. I bet when you beat yourself off, you wish it was my mouth, don’t you?”

Greg was panting outright now, and Mycroft had done nothing more than unclasp his belt. Slowly, agonizingly slowly, Mycroft drew the leather strap from the loops. “I see the way you look at my mouth, don’t pretend you don’t,” Mycroft teased, letting his tongue peek out for just a moment. “It’s alright Gregory, I’ve got you.”

“Holy fuck-“ Greg tried, head hitting the back of the stall. But Mycroft waited for him to raise it again before he played the final card. He took the belt, holding it heavy in his hands, before looping it around his neck, not tight enough to keep him from breathing, or more importantly swallowing, but just enough to give the illusion of a collar.

Greg was actually leaking now, a wet spot in his jeans like a fucking teenager, and this was what he lived for. Whatever one might infer from his spot on the floor and the belt around his neck, Mycroft was the only one in control right now. And god, _that_ was what turned him on.

Show successfully over, Mycroft slid down Greg’s trousers and pants with little fanfare before lavishing at the man’s cock, nipping the inside of his thigh as moved upwards. Greg whimpered unintelligibly above him, biting at his lip to keep from moaning outright, fingers clenching painfully in Mycroft’s hair.

Someone pounded on the outside bathroom door. “Hey, anybody in here?” they called and Mycroft looked up through his lashes to blink at Greg.

“How fast can you finish?” he challenged and Greg didn’t even dignify that with a response, grabbing at Mycroft’s head as he thrust into his open mouth. Mycroft let the man fuck his face for a minute before he grabbed Greg’s hips, holding his tight as he swallowed, all wet heat and hallowed cheeks. And that was when Greg came, fist stuffed in his mouth to keep from shouting.

He helped the man clean up as much as he could before standing up and lopping Greg’s belt back through his jeans. “Let’s go,” he offered and Greg looked down, concerned.

“Do you-“ he tried, unsure and Mycroft realized they were stuck. _My place or yours_ wasn’t really a question and there was no way Mycroft was bringing the man back to his dorm in Cambridge. And then it hit him.

“I have a flat in Mayfair,” he offered and Greg nearly laughed.

“You middle class piece of shit,” he badgered, pushing Mycroft a bit too hard and they nearly ended up snogging against the stall wall but another pound came at the door and Mycroft shoved Greg back into the stall, waiting for it to close behind him before he opened the big door.

A man in a heavy coat and willies waited on the other side and Mycroft gave him his best smile. “I’m so sorry, it must have locked behind me,” he excused and the man grumbled something about _knowing how small it must be_ before Mycroft left quickly, walking out the front door.

He was only waiting minutes before Greg was running out the door to find him. They didn’t even bother speaking as they both hailed a cab and Mycroft had never rambled off his address so fast in his life. They turned, nearly in slow motion, as the cab drove on and then Mycroft kissed Greg hard enough to see stars.

 

He wasn’t fully aware of falling asleep, but he must have dozed off in the post-orgasmic haze because Mycroft woke up to a shift in his bed as Greg tried to flee silently from the room.

“Mmh,” he murmured, not his most articulate moment, and Greg paused to smooth his wild hair back with one hand. It was when Mycroft was thoroughly shagged that you could see the resemblance between him and Sherlock, a fact which worried Mycroft immensely on how Sherlock was spending his days.

“I was trying not to wake you,” Greg apologized, fingers still combing through Mycroft’s hair and the genius took it as a good sign.

“Stay,” he whispered, throat sore from sleep and screaming and semen, and so it came out more gravelly than it normally would.

Greg winced, almost hidden in the darkness. “I can’t,” he reminded Mycroft and ah yes, the wife and kids back home. Right. This is a fuck me and leave relationship, Mycroft had nearly forgotten.

He sat up, brushing the tendrils of sleep from his eyes. “I’ll walk you out,” he offered, swinging out of bed and Greg looked embarrassingly grateful, as though he expected Mycroft to protest. But Mycroft knew exactly what he was signing up for here.

Greg dressed quickly, Mycroft helping him find the clothing he’d left scattered around the room like a trail of evidence to the bed. He helped Greg tie his tie, a moment of sickening domesticity that was abhorrently ironic given the situation, and then kissed him filthily as he left.

“I’ll call you,” Greg promised, hands still wrapped up in Mycroft’s hair as they snogged by the door. “Or I’ll see you around the offices tomorrow.”

“Fancy christening the conference room?” Mycroft offered and Greg nearly choked on air. They smiled against each other, a brush of noses, and then Greg was gone, down the hallway and out the door.

He made himself tea, sitting down by the kitchen island to drink it before texting Harry. _The eagle has landed, target captured, or whatever other codenames you made up for this scenario- MH._

Mycroft tried to ignore the sick feeling curdling in his stomach, heavy and thick that felt like proper shame at being used and thrown away. He’d done this before, this _casual fuck in the middle of the night_ sort of nonsense and it wasn’t as though Mycroft was _sentimental_.

Something that looked suspiciously like _feelings_ reared its ugly head inside his gut and he pushed it down with a quick sip of tea and a vicious reminder that _caring is not an advantage_. His father had taught him that, late one night as they watched massacres on the telly. The man hadn’t seemed to find any problem with leaving his wife and two children ten years later, so perhaps it was a sound philosophy.

He only got three sips down before Harry called him.

 

* * *

 

Mycroft and Jim were at war.

That was the only proper way to describe it, flawed as it was. There was no public declaration, no fanfare. They were simply each doing their best to get the other fired.

Mycroft would submit a document for approval only to learn it had somehow “gotten lost.” Jim would walk into work and learn his user ID was logged onto every sensitive computer. Mycroft lost track of how many times he came into find his computer’s hard drive utterly wiped. He started carrying a flashdrive with him, just as a precaution.

It was all a bit ridiculous, the way they were trying to get each other sacked for things they _hadn’t_ done, when all they would really have had to do is tell someone what the other teen actually _was_ doing. Mycroft was still quietly hacking the whole office security system, gathering enough information to secure him a job when this internship ended. Jim was up to something far more sinister.

Mycroft wasn’t sure what the genius was doing. He wasn’t hacking any computers in the office, Mycroft was sure about that, And then he realized; Jim was hacking _people_. Not the way Mycroft was, by building a small empire of people up to their eyes in favors owed, but like servants.

Of course Jim wasn’t hacking any computers- he didn’t have to. He’d get someone with access to the information to get it _for_ him. The boy wasn’t even out of sixth form and he already knew the golden rule of any criminal organization: never get your hands dirty. Mycroft would’ve been impressed if he wasn’t so terrified.

 “Mycroft!” Michaels yelled from his office. “Mycroft, I told you to post the Baker files weeks ago, what are they still doing on my desk?”

Mycroft startled, turning around. “Sir, I-“ he started and held back. “An honest mistake, sir,” he tried instead, damning Jim to the pits of hell.

“What’s going on with you Mycroft?” Michaels asked carefully and Mycroft gave his best smile.

“I’m graduating in a few months sir, things have just been overwhelming is all,” he excused. Graduation couldn’t come soon enough, if he was being honest. He was done with Cambridge mid second year. The rest was just pure pedigree. “I’ll run them over now.”

Michaels stared at him a minute. “You’re a good kid Mycroft. Don’t blow it,” he cautioned and Mycroft wanted to explain, in no uncertain terms, how he planned to take Michaels’ very job in three years but he held back.

He had to get Jim out of his life, as soon as possible.

He came up with ridiculous strategies, most bordering if not delving into illegal. But in the end, he didn’t have to do anything at all.

“Betty, where’s Jim?” Mycroft asked the downstairs receptionist two weeks later. He had near constant surveillance on the boy, either his own eyes or one of his fast-building networks’. The boy had never come to work.

“Didn’t you hear?” Betty grinned, thrilled to get to share the news. “He got fired.”

Mycroft wasn’t sure he heard properly. “Fired from an internship?” he clarified.

Betty nodded. “Yeah. Someone corrected him and he decked the man. Punched him right in the face. That boy is insane.”

“It would appear so,” Mycroft murmured, shocked. He’d taken the boy for a carefully calculating genius like himself. Was he dealing with an unstable psychopath?

“And he seemed like such a sweet boy too,” Betty tutted. “I guess you can never know a person.”

“Quite right,” Mycroft finished, but inside he worried. He knew this war between he and Jim was far from over. And now, with the whole world as his playground, Mycroft had no idea where the boy would strike. For the first time in a long time, Mycroft was scared.

 

* * *

 

“Mycroft, there’s a bottle of bourbon on my coffee table and it’s staring at me.”

Mycroft rubbed away whatever sleep was still clinging to his eyes and crawled out of bed. “Harry, don’t touch it. I’ll be over in a minute,” he ordered, pulling on shoes.

“God Mycroft, I’m just-“

“I’ll be right there,” he promised, hanging up the phone and thanking some higher power that he was staying in the London apartment that night. Swearing, he tugged on a coat and rushed out the door, unlocking his car as he raced down the stairs and out onto the street.

 Harry was dorming at UCL and in fifteen minutes, Mycroft was up the stairs to her set of apartments, let in by three giggling drama majors. He knocked on the door of Harry’s room and she opened the door, rather worse for the wear.

“Shit, My-“ she sobbed, breath hitching as she fell up against Mycroft’s chest and he held her for a moment, rubbing her back, before righting her and striding inside. Already a junior, Harry’s room had two bedrooms separated by a common living room/kitchenette and the benefit of a roommate in France. Said bourbon was indeed sitting on the end table, directly in front of the couch.

“How did bourbon end up in your dorm, Harry?” Mycroft questioned as he picked the bottle up, walking with it to the sink. His stomach curled as he realized that, despite still being full, the bottle was unsealed and opened.

Harry had followed him into the kitchen, leaning back against the counter. “I bought it,” she confessed, ripping her cuticles to shreds.

“Why?” Mycroft forced, pouring the noxious mix down the sink. Harry winced, both at the sight and Mycroft’s tone, and then went back to her butchered fingers.

“John and I had a really bad fight,” she said finally, as Mycroft dumped the bottle in the small garbage by the sink. “I just- I was worried-“

Mycroft opened the mini fridge and rooted out some apples, to help with the cravings. Silently, he set to peeling and chopping them, knife ringing accusingly through the dorm room. Harry talked to fill the silence.

“I came home and there were all these booklets on the table,” she explained as Mycroft diced the slices ever smaller. “At first I thought it was just junk but then he said-“ she sucked in a breath, fingers trembling. “He wants to join the army, Mycroft. My baby brother wants to join the army.”

Mycroft actually froze, knife a precarious few inches from his fingers as all his thoughts immediately circled to-

“And no, he hasn’t told your brother yet,” Harry said, reading his mind. “And you can’t tell him either. John made me promise he’d be the one to tell Sherlock.”

She turned to Mycroft, uncertainty rimming her eyes, and Mycroft didn’t speak. He placed the bowl of apples in her arms and steered them towards the couch, letting her fold in on herself, bowl clutched possessively in her hands.

Harry was compact the same way John was, but on her it made her rather like a cat, curling up in impossibly small and tight balls. Mycroft settled next to her, one leg bent in front of him, and suddenly craved a drink himself.

“I have to tell Sherlock,” he said after a moment. “Do you have any idea what this will do to him?”

Harry grimaced. “Rather the same thing it’s doing to me, yeah?” she offered and Mycroft remembered why they were here.

“Eat your apples,” he ordered, caretaker mode taking over. “Take the edge off at least.”

Harry popped a small square into her mouth, offering the bowl to Mycroft who only shook his head. “I’m proud of you for calling me,” he said softer and Harry’s shoulders relaxed. “You shouldn’t have bought it in the first place, but it’s good you called.”

“Sorry to wake you up so late,” she apologized, worrying at the edges of the bowl. Harry was a fidgeter in the way that calm, composed John was not, worsened by withdrawal. He knew she had been abused, along with John, but he got the sense that it had all been worse for Harry. She’d seen more of herself in their mother, had felt the duty to protect her little brother and had failed miserably. That tended to turn a person into a bit of a nervous wreck.

“That’s what I’m here for,” Mycroft promised, rubbing her socked foot. “I am your sponsor.” Mycroft was also very aware that he was one of the few people graced with this side of Harry, the vulnerable, unsure side. Most of the world only got her exuberance, her loud talks, her cheerful smiles and her unrelenting opinion.

It was one of the first privileges Mycroft had ever earned; this right to see the very soul of another human being. He wasn’t even this close with his brother, not for many years now.

Harry smiled at him gratefully, eating an apple slice. “He’s really serious about going; he’s thought it out and everything,” she explained, worrying Mycroft.

“You can’t talk him out of it?” he asked, hoping.

Harry shook her head. “Once John gets an idea in his head, there isn’t a person alive who could talk him out of it. I even played the Sherlock card- nothing. He really wants this Mycroft,” she confessed, voice hitching.

Mycroft was silent, knowing Harry well enough to tell she wasn’t finished. And, a few moments later, she continued.

“I never was really good at this big sister stuff,” she admitted, back to her helpless cuticles. “John was always more of a big brother than I was. He’ll be so happy in the army My, and what kind of sister would I be to stop him-“ she choked, crying at last.

Unsure, Mycroft took the bowl from her arms and set it on the table. He unwound her carefully, and drew the girl into his chest, letting her head fall against his heart as she sobbed, one arm encircling her, fingers combing through her hair. Harry settled into it perfectly enough, curling up around the teen to clutch at his t-shirt.

Mycroft had never been one for physical contact. Sexual contact was endured as a means to a very gratifying end but that was all. Mycroft did not cuddle. Mycroft did not hug. Mycroft rarely ever even shook hands. And yet, he felt none of the indignities he generally did with Harry curled up around him, soaking his shirt through.

“Promise me you won’t tell Sherlock,” she begged through tears. “John will hate me forever if you do.”

Mycroft hesitated. Promises meant very little, after all. But he knew, instinctively, that promises to Harry were promises kept. “I promise,” he said, meaning it, and she quieted a little.

They sat quietly on the couch until someone turned on the telly and then they sat quietly to the gentle hum of rubbish late-night television. It was nearing three am, and Mycroft could feel Harry drifting off in his arms. Wordlessly, he nudged her into a sitting position and helped her stand, shuffling her off to the bedroom.

Harry’s bedroom was a mess and the girl was unresisting, letting Mycroft lead her into bed, turning the duvet down so she could climb in. Harry curled up instantly, head nestled on the pillow as her blonde hair formed an almost halo beneath her skull.

Mycroft moved to leave but a soft moan called him back. “Mycroft?” Harry cried in a whisper, voice uncertain. “Will you…stay with me?”

Mycroft didn’t speak, let alone give himself time to think, but toed off his shoes and climbed under the duvet. Harry immediately curled into him, head resting on his chest, and Mycroft could hear her sigh self-satisfied as she settled.

“I know you hate emotion,” Harry murmured against his chest, “but I love you Mycroft.”

Mycroft knew he was supposed to say it back, tried to say it back, but the words clogged in his throat, unused and rusty, to he settled for brushing back Harry’s hair, petting her with a soft sort of urgency.

* * *

 

Mycroft was also having fabulous amounts of amazing sex.

He and Greg never seemed to even stop texting and Mycroft began staying in the London apartment and tolerating the ridiculous commute to Cambridge so they had somewhere to go at night and didn’t have to resort to sex in alleyways. Which they did anyway.

Mycroft was very aware of what this was. He was used to sex with no strings, preferred it actually, but this business of an affair was something else entirely. They couldn’t go out for dinner, to the cinema, or even pubs really, sticking to the very poorly lit ones. If they crossed paths in the office, they exchanged nothing more than hellos or pleasantries. As far as anyone outside of Harry was concerned, they barely knew each other.

They had dinner most nights in the London apartment. Greg was an amazing cook and Mycroft found himself falling in love with the domesticity of Greg at the stove, Mycroft laying the table, and soft laughter over wine and chicken. Some nights it felt like they were playing couple. Mycroft couldn’t have predicted how much he would enjoy those nights of quiet conversation and heated debates.

And some nights were pure sex and Mycroft loved those too.

But Sherlock, being Sherlock, figured it all out rather quickly, to both men’s chagrin. Mycroft had been texting Greg for a solid hour, some care related, but most pure and dirty smut when his mobile buzzed with a far more sinister text.

_Stop it – SH_

Mycroft froze, unsure, before deciding to deny the whole thing. Denial was a wonderful tactic with Sherlock, it frustrated him to no end, _Why is it you only ever text to yell at me? I’m starting to think you dislike me little brother- MH_

 _I’m at the Met trying to talk to Lestrade and he’s barely listening to me because he’s too bust texting you!- SH_ Sherlock texted back and Mycroft grinned privately into his phone, beyond flattered.

_Who?- MH_

_Stop pretending you don’t know who he is! You have an eidetic memory!- SH_

_Is that your little inspector? Why would I be texting him?- MH_ Mycroft texted, wincing a bit at the terminology. Greg was not tiny, in any sense of the world. Some nights, Mycroft found him far too big.

He ignored his phone a bit, finishing some paperwork, and nearly fell out of his chair when he finally checked Sherlock’s last message.

_Because you always take everything that’s mine. You never let me have anything of my own- SH_

_Someone’s a bit touchy- MH_

_You have your own things Mycroft! Why do always need to take mine too?- SH_

That chilled him. He knew he and his brother didn’t get along, but to consider the people around them as pieces to be owned was something Mycroft had never thought of his baby brother. Sure, Sherlock was rude and possessive and practically childish, but this was a new low. He wondered if John knew just how his “boyfriend” thought of him, or if teenagers still found such possession adorable.

 _Sherlock, regardless of whether I am texting this inspector of yours, people are not objects. You can’t call “dibs” on them- MH_ Mycroft tried, wondering just how he could have missed this coming.

_Just leave him alone- SH_

_This inspector of yours is a grown adult. He can make his own decisions- MH_ Mycroft texted, throwing all denial and precaution to the wind.

 _You’re manipulating him!- SH_ That one hurt. That one felt like a knife in his stomach. If Sherlock even knew the kind of crap he went through for him, the kind of strings he pulled- no. Who was he kidding? Sherlock knew all of it and didn’t care because Sherlock was the most spoiled child Mycroft had ever met.

_Do you really think so little of me Sherlock? That I would manipulate the people around you so you would have no friends of your own?- MH_

_You hate me- SH_ Some people claimed Mycroft didn’t have a heart. If so, he was experiencing rather unexplainable chest pains.

 _Oh no little brother,_ Mycroft texted back, fingers flying across the keyboard. _I may one of the only people in the world who most definitely does not hate you. –MH_

Sherlock may have replied, but Mycroft did not stay around to check as he shut off his phone with restrained anger. His head fell into his hands, fingers rubbing at his temples, and for one of the few times in Mycroft’s life, he had to try not to cry.


	4. Chapter 4

Greg arched underneath him like a well-oiled cat, soft moans falling unbidden from his mouth. Mycroft was riding him achingly slowly, fingers digging into Greg’s chest as the older man bit his lip to keep from screaming. Mycroft was silent as well, two of Greg’s fingers in his mouth.

Mycroft’s bedroom felt near a hundred degrees, sweaty and smoky, when Greg finally let out one low groan, wrapped around Mycroft’s name, as he came. Mycroft let go of Greg’s fingers so the man could finish him off and then he collapsed, undone, on top of Greg.

Mycroft knew they only had a few minutes before Greg would push him off and set about collecting his clothes to shower and leave. So he relished those few stolen minutes with his head in the crick of Greg’s neck, the older man’s fingers wrapped around his waist. He was in danger of falling into something here, and whatever it was scared Mycroft to no end, so he planned on ignoring it until he had no choice.

Greg’s hands moved underneath him, pushing him up gently so he could pull out and it was then that Mycroft’s phone rang.

“Ignore it,” Greg groaned, kissing Mycroft’s chest.

Mycroft moaned in agreement even as he crawled across the bed to get his mobile. It was an unknown number and he puzzled at it a moment before finally answering.

“Hello?” Mycroft said into the phone, painfully aware of how horse his voice sounded.

“Mycroft you need to get to Sherlock now.” John’s voice rang through the phone edged with panic and horror and Mycroft was immediately awake, swinging himself over so his feet touched the floor, sitting on the edge of the bed.

“John, what is going on?” he asked quickly, his mind immediately jumping to the worst conclusions. But John was already rambling before he even had a chance to finish his question.

“He’s in trouble Mycroft. I called and this guy answered and I think he’s taking something. Mycroft please, I don’t have the car, I can’t get to Eton and no trains are running, you need to go-”

“John, take a deep breath,” Mycroft ordered, cutting him off even as his pulse raced. _Sherlock_. “What happened?”

There was a long pause before John said, “I told him I was joining the army.”

Mycroft felt the world drop out from under him. Greg was staring at him from the other side of the bed, confused and groggy, but Mycroft didn’t even know how to explain himself.

“Mycroft I’m so sorry, I know this is all my fault. I didn’t think he would-“ John pleaded, voice cracking with desperation and distress and god, the boy was _crying-_

“I’m on my way now. I’ll keep you informed,” Mycroft promised, climbing out of bed and searching for a pair of trousers and he tugged them on.

“I’m so sorry Mycroft,” John was barely legible through his tears, words drowned out by thick sobs. Greg was avidly watching him now, mouthing _what’s wrong_ over and over but Mycroft could only wave him off as he pulled on a t-shirt.

“It’s not your fault,” Mycroft said, more out of necessity than truth. But John was too smart for simple platitudes. Of course he was- Sherlock was dating him.

“Yes it is.” And then John hung up and Mycroft had pulled on his shoes.

“What the hell is going on?” Greg demanded from the bed and Mycroft turned on him with shattered eyes.

“My brother,” he said simply and Greg immediately understood, standing to pull his own clothes on. :Where are you going?” Mycroft asked, knowing full well and still confused.

“With you,” Greg shot back, tugging his own shirt on. “There is no way I’m letting you drive like this.”

Mycroft bristled. “I’m fine,” he growled and Greg glared at him.

“I don’t care what you think you are,” the inspector minced. “I am not letting you drive distracted.”

“How are you going to explain why you’re with me at 12:30 am?” Mycroft challenged.

Greg was already running out the door, tying his tie as he did. “Funnily enough, I don’t actually give a fuck what people think right now and you shouldn’t either. Now get in the car.”

Mycroft knew he should protest, should make some noise of derision, should clarify that he was ready and able to drive his own fucking car, but the honest truth was he was actually grateful to throw Greg the keys to his car and slide into the passenger seat.

“Do you know where Eton is?” Mycroft checked as Greg started the car.

Greg clicked his tongue, thinking. “Somewhere in Windsor, right? Can’t be that hard to find, you’ll point me in the right direction.”

“You’re gonna want to take the M4-“

“I know how to get to Windsor, Mycroft,” Greg snapped, pulling out and the car was deathly silent as they turned left onto Piccadilly. As they paused at a red light, Greg fished out his mobile and tossed it at Mycroft.

“You’re going to make three calls,” he ordered and Mycroft, never one for orders on a normal day, was for the first time relieved to let someone else take charge. “First, call Sherlock’s mobile.”

Mycroft dialed the number and blinked as it came up as Sherlock, surprised to see his baby brother’s number saved on the phone of the man he was fucking, never mind that said baby brother was their connection in the first place. He let it ring out and closed the phone as it went to voicemail, recorded in a fit of apathy two summers ago. _Hello, you’ve reached the voice-mail of Sherlock Holmes, if that wasn’t blatantly obvious. If you are boring, hang up now. If not, feel free to leave a message and I’ll decide if you’re dull or not. Mycroft, you will never find the cookie tin. Give up_

The jab about his cookie-eating habits raised goose bumps, and he turned back to Greg. “It went to voicemail,” he said, ashamed at how his voice was shaking. “John said something about trying to call him.”

Greg turned right onto the thruway. “Okay. Now call 999,” he ordered and Mycroft blinked.

“If it’s drugs-“ he started but Greg cut him off.

“You’ve already involved the police, Mycroft,” he barked and Mycroft flinched. God, it was too early for this and he didn’t have his head straight. “For fucks sake, he’s your brother.”

“What do I tell them?” he asked helplessly as he dialed the number.

“Put it on speaker,” Greg answered and Mycroft complied, setting it on the armrest between them.

“999, what is your emergency?” a calm voice on the other end answered and Mycroft immediately deduced, _woman, late thirties, overweight-_

“Yes, suspected drug overdose at Eton College in Windsor, boy by the name of Sherlock Holmes,” Greg rattled off effortlessly as he drove, not even looking back from the road. “He’s in room-“

“643A, Wotton House,” Mycroft filled in and the woman on the other end made a soft noise of surprise.

“Greg, is that you?” she asked and Greg looked at the phone for a second, surprised.

“Evening, Lorraine,” Greg sighed and the woman, Lorraine, seemed to grow concerned.

“What are we dealing with Greg? Why are you at Eton?” she asked.

“Just send an ambulance,” Greg asked. “Matter of fact, send a few coppers too.”

Mycroft’s eyes nearly popped out of his skull but Greg was avoiding his gaze. The amount of people Mycroft was going to have to bribe-

“Already sent,” Lorraine promised. “Now Greg-“

“I’ll fill you in later,” Greg placated and motioned for Mycroft to hang up. The teen did and before he could start yelling about cops, Greg moved on to the last call.

“Call his dame. They have those, right?” Greg checked and Mycroft nodded, pulling out his own phone to find Donna Parks’ number. “Warn her to look out for the ambulance.”

Mycroft called the number and a sleep-fuddled woman answered the phone. “Mr. Holmes?” she croaked and he was rattling before he could stop himself.

“Ms. Parks, I need you to watch out for an ambulance, it should be coming now,” he explained and he could hear Donna waking up, voice getting higher pitched.

“What the bloody hell has he done this time?” she shrieked but Mycroft just hung up, tossing the phone in the cup holder and running a hand through his bed hair.

“They’re going to expel him,” he moaned softly, trying to calm his hair.

“Is that actually your biggest concern right now?” Greg asked incredulously as he turned off the highway and Mycroft didn’t know what to say. He wanted to say he was so used to drugged-out, strung-out Sherlock that his brain had already moved on to contingency planning but that sounded worse somehow. So he stayed silent as they navigated the narrow streets, offering directions from time to time.

By the time they reached Sherlock’s dorm, the blue lights were flashing from the streets and Donna Parks ran out in a dressing gown to catch Mycroft as he and Greg rushed out of the car.

“He’s done it again, hasn’t he? Gotten himself high as a kite?” she yelled as Greg left him to go talk to the ambulance team running inside.

“Ms. Parks-“ Mycroft tried, wanting nothing more than to push her aside and run upstairs himself. Students were pouring out into the street and looking out their windows as the sirens kept wailing and Mycroft mentally shrieked as a panda car pulled up.

“You can’t keep paying his way out of things,” she warned, clutching at the frayed robe. “The school won’t keep putting up with it-“

“The school will keep putting up with it as long as my family keeps building new wings; now if you please Ms. Parks,” Mycroft brushed her off, sprinting towards the building and up the stairs to find an entire team of medics carrying out a stretcher through his brother’s broken-down dorm room door.

Sherlock looked like a doll, pale as the sheets he was wrapped in, and Mycroft felt his knees give out from under him, felt someone, a copper maybe, reach out a hand to steady him as his breath left his lungs liked he’d been sucker-punched.

A part of his brain was yelling that he should be used to this, he’d spent a better part of the last year scraping such Sherlocks off the floor of his dorm but he’d thought they were passed all this, through the horror that had been rehab and better for it. Hell, he’d even hoped God had sent him an angel in the form of John Watson to keep his baby brother straight. But even John couldn’t fight lost battles.

”-yeah, I got the brother right here,” someone was saying and then Mycroft was pulling himself together like he had been since he was thirteen and watching his father walk out of the manor without so much as a suitcase or a backwards glance. By the time the head medic on sight reached him, he looked as composed as any sane man might at one a.m.

“Mycroft, is it?” the medic checked before plunging ahead. “We’re taking him to Princess Margaret in Berkshire, do you want to ride with him?”

“He’ll be riding with me,” Greg’s voice rang out and Mycroft wanted nothing more than to sag into Greg’s arms and sob but all he did was straighten his spine.

The medic nodded and moved to leave but Mycroft held out a hand. “How bad is it?” he asked carefully, tone even and practically unconcerned. Greg stared at him shocked, as though appalled one brother could care so little about the other.

The medic seemed to appreciate the impersonality thought and said, “Quite honestly, we can’t be sure until after the blood work. But it looks like a heroin overdose.”

“Thank you,” Mycroft started but then a movement in the corner of his eye caught his attention. “If you’ll excuse me a moment,” he murmured before rushing off, Greg calling after him.

The boy was loitering by a lamppost, hands in the pockets of his black jeans and he looked rather unmoved as Mycroft seized him by the lapels of his winter jacket.

“What the bloody hell are you playing at?” Mycroft snarled, all previous composure gone, but Jim Moriarty only grinned at him.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he smiled and Mycroft seriously considered punching him in the face but then remembered the array of coppers not twenty meters away and set the boy down.

“I thought our little game was over,” Mycroft tried and this time it was Jim who turned nasty, baring his teeth like a caged animal.

“You got me fired,” he hissed and Mycroft had to back up a moment to process that statement.

“You got fired because you punched a superior in the face,” Mycroft let out in one long breath, watching as it clouded in front of his face. For the first time Mycroft realized just how cold it was outside and wished, half-heartedly, that he’d thought to bring a jacket.

Jim growled. “Yes, and I would have had it cleaned up too, only turns out you’d been stealing my minions and making them yours. You were getting ahead Mycroft. I had to strike back,” he shrugged as though it had only been logical. As though Mycroft was the one acting insane right then.

“Sherlock is not fair game,” Mycroft thundered and Jim looked at him with such perfectly round eyes that it was like looking straight down into hell, all fire and brimstone and pure insanity. His pale face was framed in the flashing blue lights of the ambulances behind them but he didn’t look drained. No, he looked _alive_.

“We’re not playing a fair game Mycroft,” he laughed and then turned and walked away.

Mycroft watched him for a few stolen moments, painfully aware that however hard he looked, there would be no evidence that Jim had sold Sherlock the heroin he’d shot up with. He shook himself off and walked over to where Greg was standing, talking with a few other coppers.

“And why the hell were you with the freak’s brother at one a.m.?” one of the detectives, a sour-looking man, asked and Mycroft’s heart froze.

But Greg was nothing but casual. “I was walking home from the office when I saw him dashing out to his car. I didn’t want him driving distracted like that.”

It was an utterly ridiculous tale, made more ridiculous by the fact that Mayfair was absolutely nowhere near New Scotland Yard and that they both still smelled like sex. But the detectives around bought it because this was Greg, happily married Greg, perfectly _straight_ Greg and Mycroft almost hated that they bought it.

“Greg?” Mycroft called and the inspector nodded to the other detectives before ducking into Mycroft’s car. He waited until Mycroft had closed his door before starting off and following the ambulance towards the hospital, with a lot less red-light running. It wasn’t until after they’d gone two blocks though that Greg turned to Mycroft, eyes calculating.

“What the hell was that back there?” he asked, voice bordering on angry.

Mycroft played dumb, a particularly challenging role most days, but tonight it felt easy. “What thing?” he asked.

“That whole, ‘I’m Mycroft Holmes and nothing ruffles me, not even my own brother’s emaciated body’ act.” Greg leaned in closer, nearly whispering. “If I hadn’t seen you break down at the flat, I woulda thought you didn’t give a flying fuck about Sherlock.”

Mycroft bristled. “Of course I care about Sherlock. But will my going into hysterics help anything? On the contrary. So I think it’s rather better that I maintain my composure until this matter is settled,” he explained, not looking at Greg.

He could feel the inspector’s eyes on him, over the dashboard. “Is that what you do?” he asked gently, as though approaching a feral animal. “You play the iceman in front of everyone and then break down when you’re alone?”

“That’s implying I break down,” Mycroft said, trying not to get angry. Greg sighed, obviously struggling with what he wanted to say, before finally blurting out,

“You know, if you ever do need to break down- you can always-“ Greg tried awkwardly and Mycroft spared him the indignity of eye contact. “You can call me.”

“Yes, I’m sure you can find room in your busy schedule between shuttling your kids to school and work to console me,” Mycroft minced and Greg sighed again, exasperated.

“I mean it, Mycroft. I’m not just your-“

“-fuck-buddy?” Mycroft supplied and Greg groaned out loud.

“I would’ve put it in different words but yes, that,” he rushed. “This isn’t just sex, Mycroft.”

That hung in the air for a moment, both parties desperately wishing it hadn’t been said at all. But it had been and now Mycroft had to deal with it, had to respond somehow to the assertion there were feelings in this mess of theirs.

“I was under the impression that that was exactly what this was,” he said carefully, tone low.

“Well, I don’t mean like- like a _relationship_ ,” Greg tried again as they pulled into the hospital parking lot. Greg stopped the car and both men had no choice but to face each other. Greg looked tired in the harsh floodlights, lines deep and eyes tired, sex hair still an untamed mess. Mycroft was being kind; Greg looked _old_. And he noticed it too.

“Christ,” Greg swore, reaching one hand out to cup Mycroft’s cheek and it took everything the teen had not to lean into it. “I forget sometimes that you’re just a kid.”

“A kid you’re fucking,” Mycroft reminded him none-to-gently and Greg took back the hand and hid it somewhere in his lap.

“I try to forget that part,” he confessed and Mycroft said nothing as he opened the passenger door and ducked out of the car, striding into the hospital.

 

* * *

 

***You’ve reached the voicemail box of Mycroft Holmes. Leave a message.***

_Yeah, hullo. I’ve been tailing that Moriarty kid like you asked and he hasn’t done anything at all suspicious. Like, at all. Seriously, all he did was get some sleeping pills from the dame with a bunch of other boys and then go straight to his dorm room to sleep. Can I stop now? I feel like a fucking pedophile._

-delete-

 

* * *

 

Harry showed up late that evening looking just as tired as Mycroft felt, in a brown pea coat over jeans tucked into boots. She found him in the hall outside Sherlock’s room, clutching a cup of stale coffee and dozing off against the wall. He almost asked her how she knew but then realized she’d probably heard from John.

He’d called John in the early hours of the morning, promising Sherlock was alright and telling John the whole story, drugs and rehab trips included. He’d felt guilty but honestly, how Sherlock had expected to keep such a huge chuck of his life hidden from the boy was beyond Mycroft. Sherlock had spent all of last summer in rehab for Christ’s sake, that wasn’t going to stay buried forever. The shock and horror in John’s voice had made his stomach coil in ways it hadn’t in years.

“Hey,” she said gently, coming over and laying a hand on his arm. “How are you holding up?”

Mycroft wasn’t even sure himself. Greg had left several hours ago and another yarder had asked him a few questions. He wasn’t sure what they would charge Sherlock with but he knew he’d have to clean it up and that would be a disaster, even with the help of the family lawyers. He hadn’t slept in 20 hours, hadn’t showered in more and hadn’t eaten in what felt like days.

“As well as could be expected,” he sighed, gesturing for Harry to sit down next to him in the plastic chairs that lined the hallway. “How’s John?”

“A mess,” Harry said honestly. “I stopped at home on my way here and Mum said he hasn’t eaten anything since you called. She couldn’t even make him go to school, poor kid. I tried talking to him through his bedroom door- nothing.”

“They’re going to release Sherlock tomorrow,” Mycroft said quickly and Harry hissed on his behalf. “They can’t keep him here any longer than two days and he won’t go quietly to rehab, I can promise you. Not to mention Eton refuses to take him back if he doesn’t go.”

Harry reached over a hand to rub his neck, massaging out tension knots and Mycroft wasn’t sure what he’d done to deserve a Harry in his life. He’d walked into Sherlock’s room earlier that afternoon only to have a tray table thrown at his head, accompanied by incredibly creative curses. He hadn’t tried again since.

“Let me talk to him,” Harry offered and Mycroft stared at her.

“That’s a terrible idea,” he said immediately, only imagining the kind of cutting deductions Sherlock would make about the girl in his current state. He was not prepared to deal with a crying Harry on top of everything.

“Do you have a better one?” she asked and Mycroft had to admit he did not. Harry stood, stripping her coat, before handing it off to Mycroft. “Don’t come in with me,” she instructed and then strode into the lion’s den.

She left the door open and Mycroft could hear the conversation inside from where he sat, back against the wall, and held his breath.

“God you’re a mess,” Harry sad and Mycroft could imagine the seen, Harry stood at the end of Sherlock’s bed, arms crossed, while the thin boy stared back at her from where he burrowed in white sheets.

“You’re hardly the paradigm of beauty, Harriet. Sobriety treating you well?” Sherlock asked and Mycroft waited for the ensuing screaming match.

It didn’t come. “You’re an arsehole,” Harry said calmly, a tinge of venom in her voice, and even Sherlock hadn’t expected that. “Do you have any idea what you’ve done to John? The kid is a mess; he hasn’t slept since your little stunt.

“You have to make everything about you, don’t you?” she went on, gaining steam. “It’s John who’s going to the army, John who’s making his own life choices but instead of _talking_ to him like a reasonable human being, instead of having a fucking _conversation_ with him, you stage a little play _dramatica_ \- you melodramatic areshole.”

“And you’ve been the very example of staying on the wagon, haven’t you Harry? No late-night bourbon for you after a rough fight?” Sherlock deduced rapidly and Mycroft wanted to rush in there and pull Harry out before she punched his insensitive brother.

But Harry was nothing but calm. “Yeah, I almost relapsed,” she confessed evenly. “But I didn’t, you know why? I called my friends. That’s what friends do, Sherlock. They help you when you can’t help yourself.

“We’re not so very different, you and I,” she continued when Sherlock was silent. “Both addicts in our own ways. But I got clean for Clara, Sherlock. You can get clean for John.”

“It seems you missed the memo,” Sherlock said bitterly. “John and I broke up.”

Harry sounded just as surprised and Mycroft felt, a “What?” rushing to her lips unbidden.

“I broke up with him, not three hours ago,” Sherlock said, perfectly blasé and Mycroft could honestly not believe it. Sherlock was over the moon about John. Sherlock, who cared for no one but himself, worshiped the very ground John walked on. This was-

“And you’ve regretted it every minute since then, haven’t you?” Harry deduced on her own and Mycroft was honestly scared as to what she’d say next.

“Listen to me Sherlock,” she said measuredly, so low Mycroft had to lean closer to the wall to hear, “he’ll forgive you, I promise. I wouldn’t, because what kind of douchebag breaks up with someone after that someone helped save their life? But John will because John is a fucking saint and we both know it.

“He’ll forgive you for breaking his heart, for messing with his mind. But he won’t forgive you for this- this overdose. Unless you get clean, he will never forgive you for turning into our father.”

Harry was out of Sherlock’s room and two paces down the hall before Mycroft snapped back to himself and rushed after her, catching her by the elevator. Acting purely on instinct, he wrapped her in a hug, tight and awkward with her coat still held between them, but Harry hugged back.

“I think he’ll do it,” she said, voice close to breaking. “He looked like he’ll do it.”

“Thank you,” Mycroft murmured, close to breaking himself. “Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.”

They got lunch in the terrible cafeteria downstairs and Mycroft bought Harry a salad consisting of nothing but cucumbers which made her laugh. They sat at a small table, sleeves brushing up against each other as Mycroft drank tea and Harry munched her selective salad.

“So what happens now?” she asked gently, offering Mycroft a cucumber. He shook his head with a soft sort of smile and answered her.

“Now, the Holmes family lawyers step in, pay a bunch of money, make a few arguments, and Sherlock learns nothing,” he sighed, sipping his tea. It was still too hot and it left the slight taste of burnt skin on his tongue and a numbness in his lips.

“That’s ridiculous,” Harry muttered and Mycroft couldn’t help but agree. Much as he was glad Sherlock wouldn’t get prison time, or even community service, he worried just what he was teaching his baby brother. Harry once suggested, late at night when they were both half-asleep, that he gave Sherlock everything because he couldn’t make himself say the words “I love you.” It was a theory that was looking more promising by the minute.

They ate, or drank, in silence for a few moments- the kind of loving silence that can fall between good friends. The kind of silence that doesn’t demand to be filled but instead sits gently with mutual adoration and tenderness.

Harry broke it carefully. “What about your Mum? Where’s she in all this?”

“She,” Mycroft laughed darkly, a bit deprecating, “is paying for the lawyers. She wouldn’t come to the hospital. Bit too huggy for her. Besides, this is how she punishes him- by not seeing him off to rehab. Not as though Sherlock will notice-“

“I’ve met your Mum,” Harry cut him off, protesting. “She’s not this…frigid bitch you’re making her out to be. She loves you both; even an idiot could see that.”

Mycroft tried his tea again. This time it merely soothed, though his tongue was still raw. “That’s how Holmeses show their love. Carefully, and from a distance. Caring is not an advantage, Harry.”

“You don’t really believe that, do you?” Harry teased but her smile faded at Mycroft’s expression, one of utter severity. He wasn’t sure if he believed it or not, but he followed it regardless. It seemed to serve best. Emotions only led to heartbreak and disaster, lonely Christmases and late-night scares from baby brothers in hospitals.

“Hey,” Harry called gently, snapping him out of his reverie with a soft hand on his arm. Small as Harry was, her hands were infinitely smaller and he wondered sometimes if someone had seen fit to sew child’s hands onto her wrists. “You’re not like them. You love. And you know how I know? Because I love you. And I don’t love easy, Mycroft.”

That phrase again and damn him to hell but Mycroft couldn’t make the words come out and he would lose the only true friend he’d ever had-

“It’s okay,” Harry promised, reading him perfectly and he’d never been more proud. “You don’t have to say it back. I know it’s hard for you.”

She reached over to move her hand on top of his and after a bit of nudging, he helped lace their fingers together- her small hand nearly swallowed in his larger one. “I hope you say it one day, I really do,” she confessed, playing with his pinkie with her own.

“But even if you don’t, I’ll keep saying it. For both of us.” Harry smile was like a rainbow reflected in a puddle, not as dazzling and overpowering but just as promising and Mycroft felt the tiny scape of heart inside him swell to infinite sizes as he squeezed her hand in his own.

 

On the day of Sherlock’s scheduled release, Mycroft walked into the teen’s hospital room with sweaty palms. The boy was sitting cross-legged on his bed, watching Mycroft with piercing eyes as the older teen explained unnecessarily.

“The lawyers cleaned up the worst of it. Sherlock,” Mycroft said, impersonating a block of ice. “But Eton refuses to take you back unless you attend rehab for two and a half weeks.”

“That is the worst motivation you have ever given me, Mycroft,” Sherlock deadpanned back. “Lucky for you, I’ve already decided I will go to rehab without a fight.”

Mycroft blinked. “That’s rather…mature of you,” he said finally as Sherlock swung himself off the bed and strode forward to take the street clothes piled in Mycroft’s arms. The body didn’t reply, only began stripping unabashedly in front of his brother.

 _Christ_. He could count Sherlock’s ribs if he wanted to and his stomach dipped in, like a woman’s might. His mother’s voice was ridiculously loud and over pronounced in his head. _“Letting your brother starve, Mycroft? Have you no sense of family responsibility?”_

Sherlock didn’t seem to notice how Mycroft gaped at the gap between his thighs as he tugged the hospital gown up and over his head. Or if he did, he didn’t comment but only pulled on a pair of trousers and a buttoned shirt.

“Now come,” he ordered, adjusting the last button. “Let’s get out of here before you gain another stone from the cafeteria food.”

Greg had left Mycroft’s car in the parking lot outside after he’d dropped him off two nights ago. Mycroft signed the necessary paperwork and then Sherlock was piling into the backseat of his car. He should have expected that, expected Sherlock to settle for a more uncomfortable, more demeaning seat, if it meant not sitting next to his brother.

They drove in utter silence. Mycroft glanced back in the rearview mirror just once, to find Sherlock stretched out like on a sofa, staring out the far right window. He looked away quickly, ashamed. He wasn’t sure why, only that if felt like Sherlock was in the middle of an incredibly intimate moment. With who, he wasn’t sure.

“Harry called me this morning,” he said suddenly and Sherlock actually looked up at that. Mycroft didn’t catch his eye, concentrating on the road, but the boy was listening now. “She’s staying home now, to look after John. He’s not coping well, she said.”

Sherlock didn’t say anything. Mycroft knew he should stop, shouldn’t have even said as much as he had, but what was the worst that could happen? They’d pushed themselves to a breaking point two days ago. There was no going back.

“Why did you break up with him, Sherlock?” he asked, trying to be gentle. He knew he was generally as gentle as a fat-footed elephant, but he was trying. “He’s not joining the army for another year, you would have had time-“

“It wasn’t about the army,” Sherlock snapped and Mycroft paused, surprised. “He called you.”

Mycroft was nearly speechless. “He saved your life,” he reminded his brother, shocked.

“He could have called someone else,” Sherlock insisted, voice tame and unruffled.

Many years ago, when Sherlock had first started real schooling, a psychologist had suggested to his parents that they test him. His father had supported the idea; he was much more comfortable connecting with data on a sheet then the living, breathing version of his son. But Mummy had resisted.

Until they’d found Sherlock behind the school with a boy in his year, the son of the local butcher, ordering him to bring him a sheep’s heart the next day. The psychologist had declared Sherlock a sociopath. Sherlock had been six years old. Mycroft had never believed it, never even considered it. He saw too many human parts of his brother, hidden in magazines and first kisses. But it was times like these that he could understand how a psychologist could have gotten it so wrong because it wasn’t so far-fetched at all.

They were outside the rehab now, one of more expensive ones hidden from prying eyes by dense trees and high security. Mycroft turned around in his seat, staring the cold boy in the face. Sherlock didn’t so much as blink.

“Don’t make this mistake, Sherlock,” he said, surprised to find himself begging. He hadn’t planned to. “Don’t drive him away.”

Sherlock got out of the car, popping the trunk to pull his suitcase out. Attendants were already rushing outside to take Sherlock’s bag, to help him get signed in. Mycroft would have left by now. But not quite yet.

“Why do you insist on involving yourself in my personal life?” Sherlock hissed, eyes slitting and Mycroft, ever so composed and prepared, couldn’t stop himself from the gut answer that poured out of him.

“Because I care about you!” he cried and he might as well have shouted it for how still Sherlock went, how still the world seemed to go and he could feel his own hear beating, deep in his chest, trying to escape.

Sherlock walked over to him. He was close now, closer then they’ been physically to each other in years. Mycroft could smell him, the lingering smell of hospital antiseptics masking a sugary sort of odor and something purely like honey. Sherlock was right against him, pressed chest-to-chest- as he leaned into Mycroft’s ear.

“Caring is not an advantage, Mycroft,” he whispered and then Mycroft watched as the sixteen-year-old turned around to walk inside, wondering if they’d all gone a step too far, if they’d all fucked up a boy beyond repair.

 

* * *

                                                                                                                                                                           The Old Schools, Trinity Ln

                                                                                                                                                                     Cambridge CB2 1TN, United Kingdom

Dear Mr. Holmes,

                Our records indicate that you have missed more than 12 classes this term. Failure to attend classes may impact your impending graduation-

          -delete-

 

* * *

 

There was a party, of some sorts, in the last week of Mycroft’s internship for all the rather higher ups and their lowly civil servants. Mycroft couldn’t have cared less, parading around like a monkey in front of the bosses. He’d already said what needed to be said, made the connections that needed to be made, days ago. A party wasn’t going to do anything for him.

That changed, of course, when Greg walked in with a woman on his arm. She was nothing short of gorgeous, skinny and naturally blonde in a high-necked green dress that hugged her curves and swept the floor. So this was the wife.

Mycroft watched them from the corner of the room, watched them meet and talk to a few people, watched Mrs. Lestrade laugh at something a politician had said. God, she even laughed beautifully- like an actress out of a silent film.

She was holding his arm gently, like they belonged together. Like two parts of a very beautiful puzzle. He was leaning into her and she was guiding him and they looked happy. They looked like a perfectly _happy_ couple and it was all Mycroft could do to not run screaming from the room as Greg absentmindedly tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear as he whispered to her.

He wasn’t an idiot. He knew enough about emotions to realize the red-hot poker going through his stomach was a potent cocktail of jealousy and rage. Enough of both to make a saner man call it a night and head home before he made a colossal mistake. But Mycroft hadn’t gotten where he was by being sane.

They separated eventually, Greg heading off to talk to a copper and leaving his wife alone by the drinks table. And, before Mycroft’s brain could stop his feet, he’d made his way over to her. She was pouring herself a glass of something that looked suspiciously like scotch but she turned as Mycroft “accidentally” bumped into her.

“Beg pardon,” he excused, using his very best smile, the one Sherlock called his “nearly normal” smile.

She grinned back, a bit wary. “No harm, no foul, right?” she tried and fuck him but her voice was like something out of a teenage boy’s wet dream, innocent a pure with just a hint of something raspy. “I’m Caroline,” she introduced herself.

“Mycroft,” he said, offering her his hand. “Mycroft Holmes.”

She visibly froze over, utterly ignoring his extended hand in favor of looking him up and down. “Christ, you’re young,” she hissed out and Mycroft’s brain was running a million miles per hour. “Can’t say you’re not good looking, but you’re practically in diapers for Christ’s sake-“

“I’m sorry, I don’t-“ he tried but she cut him off with a wave of her hand.

“Don’t bother, he told me all about you,” she said, voice noticeably different. Almost choked somehow, but then it was gone. “He has a rather selective guilty conscious. That, and he screamed your name once during sex so- that was a tip off.”

He should feel sorry for this woman. Greg never talked about her when they were together, as a general rule. He knew she cheated first, Sherlock told him as much, and yet she was almost noticeably clenching her fists as one hand played with her wedding band. But all he could feel was a vicious stab of pride that even during sex with _her_ , Greg thought of _him._

“I asked someone earlier who you were, they told me you were this very promising intern,” she said pleasantly, as though they were two ordinary people out for a walk. As if they both weren’t fucking the same man. “I’m just surprised is all. This is what you do now, is it? Seduce men away from their wives?”

Mycroft wasn’t sure what to answer. _Deny everything_ his gut urged but before he even got the chance, Caroline spoke again.

“I wanted to talk to you, actually,” she said suddenly and Mycroft was honestly surprised.

“I’m not going to try and convince you not to keep sleeping with him, because high chance of that working,” she continued, not quite meeting his eye but staring at a space behind his ear. She had lovely eyes, green with flecks of near-amber. “I just wanted to talk.

“Has he ever told you the story of how we met?” she asked and didn’t even pause for an answer. “Of course he wouldn’t. I’m sure he doesn’t talk about me at all, be rather a mood killer. It was almost ten years ago, I was just in my twenties. I was mugged, rather brutally, and he was just a constable then.

“The mugger had taken my coat too, it had been expensive,” her eyes unforced for a bit and Mycroft knew she was reliving that moment and he hated her bitterly for those ten years when Greg didn’t even know who he was. “Greg was one of the first on the scene, he saw me shaking like a leaf and just- took off his coat and draped it around me. He called me later that week. I still think he stole my number off the report I filed but still-“

She breathed deeply, finally making eye contact. When he was very little, Mycroft had stared down on rabid dog on the edge of their property. He’d been shaking and terrified inside and showed nothing but ice-cold calm. This was a thousand times worse.

“We have two children together, Kaley and Beth,” she tried, a bit more pathetic, and Mycroft realized that despite her earlier promise not to, she was begging. He was being begged. “Kaley’s not yet five. Beautiful girls.

“I know I messed up with him.” It was like sitting through confession, hearing this, and all he could think of was Greg above him, kissing him with nothing short of break-taking passion. “I just wish- I’m trying to be better,” she whispered as all her calm and collectedness melted away to reveal someone very fragile and incredibly vulnerable.

“I love him,” she said honestly as she handed him the very key to destroy her. “And he loves me.”

“I’m afraid I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he replied, moving to walk away.

“He’ll leave you,” she warned, calling after him, her very last line of defense. “One day, listen to me, he will leave you and it will break you like it’s breaking me.”

He should’ve been kind. Harry taught him- how to be kind. Other people did it so naturally, kindness was second nature to them. Other people treaded carefully on the hearts of their fellow humans. Other people coddled strangers’ feelings. Mycroft had tried to be other people. He didn’t know how.

“Well, that’s hardly your concern anymore now, is it?” he asked pleasantly, tone even, and walked away, stepping on as many shards of this beautifully small woman’s shattered heart as he could.

He found Greg in conversation with two yarders and pulled him away with a well-placed hand and a laughing “so sorry, work business. Will they ever let up?”

“What are you doing?” Greg hissed at him as soon as they were out of earshot.

“I need to suck you off in a broom cupboard,” Mycroft ordered and Greg’s eyes shot wide in seconds.

“Fuck, now?” he gasped, trying to keep his voice low.

“If you don’t let me, I’ll find some old bastard here who will,” Mycroft threatened.

“All right, all right, fuck it. Come on,” he muttered, grabbing Mycroft’s hand and leading him from the hall. Mycroft focused on the feel of Greg’s calloused palm in his, the warmth of his arm against his chest, the feel of suit fabric, one cheap and one imported, rubbing against each other.

But mostly he tried to ignore the look Caroline Lestrade gave him as she watched them leave the ballroom, teeth dug so deeply into her bottom lip they’d begun to draw blood.

  

* * *

                                                                              

“Do you ever feel,” he whispered to Harry over the phone as he lay in his dorm bed. Whispered, because he would never dare say these words at full volume, would never have dared to say them aloud at all except that it was Harry and it was so dark out he couldn’t even see the stars, “like your life is slowly falling apart around you?”

Harry’s answer was instantaneous. “Yes,” she whispered back, voice soft and gentle in his ear, the only gentle thing left in his world. “Sometimes I think it was never put together at all.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I heard you guys asked for angst.
> 
> Lol. Just kidding. No one asked for angst. I'm just a terrible person.
> 
> I know the updating schedule is pretty wonky but I'm adoring this piece so rest assured it will be finished- promise. It might just be very, very, long. But y'all are my darlings anyway, right? :)


	5. Chapter 5

“I want you to meet Clara,” Harry said suddenly, playing nervously with her straw. It was really too cold to be sitting outside, deep into February; but Mycroft felt like he was suffocating all the time now, like all the wall around him were threating to collapse and so they took their booth outside, still wearing their jackets.

Mycroft looked up, surprised. “It’s just, she’s met my whole family,” Harry went on, flustered, “and I realized she hasn’t met the one other person who matters to me.”

Mycroft couldn’t help the flush that crept up his cheeks and was grateful for the cold that hid it well. “I’d love to meet her,” he promised, smiling, and Harry smiled weakly back.

There was a beat of silence before Harry asked, “How’s Sherlock?”

Mycroft couldn’t meet her eyes as he answered. “His reports are good. I’m visiting him on Wednesday; he only has another week in rehab.”

“That’s good,” Harry said, stiffly. Mycroft played absentmindedly with his salad. He’d left all his cucumbers in a pile by the edge of the plate. Harry hadn’t touched them.

“How’s John?” Mycroft asked, because he had to and Harry answered just the same.

“He’s back at school,” she said, her voice frail. “Still not eating much. He quit the rugby team. I’m trying to convince him to rejoin but- he’s really broken Mycroft.”

“I know-“ Mycroft tried but Harry cut him off.

“Do you know what that arsehole said to him? He told John he never wanted to hear from him again. How’s anyone supposed to take that well?” she shot back, hands trembling around her glass.

Mycroft said nothing as Harry sucked in a shaky breath. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, voice near lost in the cold wind. “It’s just- John’s my brother, Myc.”

“As Sherlock is mine,” Mycroft said unnecessarily but it bore repeating.

 “Are we doing the right thing, trying to get them back together?” she asked gently, blue eyes holding his gaze.

The answer was no. The answer was that his brother was near toxic, incredibly selfish, still rather infantile and just a tad sociopathic. The answer was that John could do so much better. The answer was that John would be so much healthier if he moved on.

“I hope so,” was what Mycroft said instead because Mycroft was toxic and selfish and rather sociopathic himself. And because he wasn’t sure how else to love.

 

* * *

 

His internship ended on Tuesday. Michaels sat him down in his office, beaming like Mycroft was the prodigal son come home.

“We’ve adored having you hear, Mycroft. An absolute pleasure,” Michaels told him, still glowing. Mycroft had walked through the front doors that morning feeling a bit nostalgic as he flashed his badge at the desk. Not for long, he knew, but for a little bit this would be his last time there.

“Thank you again for giving me this opportunity,” he said and he could understand sometimes why Sherlock hated him. This arse licking was near putrid, considering how much more of _everything_ he was than this simpering sack of a man. “I shall miss it here.”

“About that,” now Michaels really was grinning, and Mycroft knew what was coming. “I pulled a few strings, called in a few favors. I may be able to offer you a fulltime position here as an assistant after you graduate. Isn’t that fantastic?”

Mycroft thought about how many interns had sat where he was sitting then, how many had heard Michaels offer and jumped at the opportunity of work right after university. How many had never left this office.

“Funny you should make such an offer,” Mycroft said and Michaels’ face shifted, confused by this new breed of response. “I have a counter offer actually, that I’ve been working on. Care to hear it?”

He doesn’t wait for Michaels’ reply before saying, “Cabin, Norwich, Blackwater River.”

Michaels paled immediately at the mention of his private cabin near Blackwater River in Norwich. The one he’d meet his mistress in. The mistress he was currently hiding from his wife and four children.

“This may shock you, sir, but I hardly want to keep fetching coffee for the rest of my life,” Mycroft said primly, as though he hadn’t just laid Michaels’ darkest secret out of the desk in front of them.

Michaels choked. “You’re blackmailing me for a better position?” he got out, words clumsy on his tongue.

“Don’t think of it as blackmailing,” Mycroft urged, watching as six months of late-night hacking and covert internet history browsing paid off. “Think of it as my resume, so to speak. If it took me minutes to learn that, imagine just how much I could get done as a manager.”

It was terrible logic and they both knew it. But Mycroft wasn’t about to start his little jaunt to the top by playing fair.

“I’ll see what’s available,” Michaels said finally, eyes hollow.

Mycroft stood. “Thank you so much,” he said, trying on a smile. This one fit him better, sinister as it was around the edges. “Be in touch.” And with that he walked out of the offices he’d spent six months in, hands firmly in his pockets.

                                                                                . . .

John texted him as he sat in traffic on his way back to Cambridge.

 _He won’t talk to me._ Mycroft sighed, flipping open his phone. He hated this, this go between phase. He could barely get his brother to talk to him, let alone another person.

The best he could do was reassure. _My brother is in many ways a child. He will calm down- MH_

John’s response was immediate and heartbreaking. _Have I ruined everything Mycroft?_

The cars ahead of him on the M4 started moving and Mycroft set down his phone as he drove. He didn’t realize until he’d turned off how heavy his breathing was, how each breath in sounded like a small sob. He pulled to the side of the road and typed out an answer, fingers flying across the keyboard, _No. You may very well have saved his life. It is no secret that you are the best thing to ever happen to Sherlock- MH_

_What do I do?_

Mycroft remembered seventeen with vivid clarity. Everything in his life had been perfectly charted for him. He had an acceptance letter to Cambridge he hadn’t applied for, a full scholarship he didn’t need and a brother who hadn’t discovered drugs yet. He had no idea how it felt to be seventeen and lost but he imagined it felt a lot like how he felt now.

_Nothing. I will keep you informed on his progress. He returns to Eton next Wednesday- MH_

He could hear John’s scathing in his reply. _I don’t mean about that._

 _Give him time. He will come around. -  MH_ it was a promise he had no business making as he pulled back onto the road and drove home. His phone beeped at him John’s reply.

_For how long?_

He parked outside his dorm and then turned the car off, sitting there in the complete silence of the metal casing. Outside, some kids were kicking around a football, two coeds were snogging on the front steps of the dorm across the street and someone walked by with a dog. Mycroft scrubbed his hands over his face, breathing deeply before he answered. _I can’t tell you John. I’ve been giving him time for sixteen years.- MH_

 _I’m doomed._ Mycroft laughed, getting out of the car.

_All heroes are- MH_

* * *

 

Mycroft drove up to Sherlock’s rehab in pure silence, not even a radio on. There was nervousness in his stomach he couldn’t place, a rolling around sort of feeling like he was running on thin air and if he looked down he’d fall. A valet took his car and Mycroft strolled into the white, columned building.

“Mr. Holmes, sir,” a woman said, running up, her cool black heels clicking on the marble. “The young Holmes is in the visiting room. It’s-“

“I know where it is, thank you,” Mycroft brushed off. “I have been here before.” He walked past her, down a long hall, until he could faintly make out the sounds of a violin over the general chatter of an institution in use.

Sherlock was through a dark wooden door, standing near the window as he played. _Rachmaninoff_ Mycroft thought with a bitter groan as he sat down in a chair opposite the Byronic boy. Sherlock never played Rachmaninoff when he was happy. He saved it for special occasions; times where the black cloud surrounding the temperamental child grew so thick and impenetrable he found it a heavy task to even speak.

He waited until Sherlock had finished _Romance in D minor ,how appropriate,_ before speaking.

“You do know it’s meant to be played with a pianist,” he commented and Sherlock only sighed, starting on _Hungarian Dance._

“You’ll be surprised to learn there are few drug-addled pianists here, Mycroft,” the teen sighed over the first few notes. “Besides, I play alone.”

He stopped, mid-piece, and spun around to survey his brother, eyes moving impossibly quickly. “Diet’s going well,” he noted, surprised.

“It’s not a diet,” Mycroft said and Sherlock understood immediately, casting his head down in some semblance of shame. He hadn’t been actively avoiding food. It had all just seemed to lose flavor, to turn into nothing more than dust on his tongue. Anxiety was kind to his waist if nothing else.

“You however, look much better,” he added and Sherlock flushed angrily. The teen must have gained close to a quarter stone.

“They won’t let me play my violin unless I eat,” Sherlock grumbled and Mycroft raised one eyebrow.

“And you waste it on Rachmaninoff?” he teased his younger brother. “That is a crying shame. Paganini weeps.”

Sherlock did not even spare him the courtesy of an answer, merely turning back to his violin. If the first piece had been Romantic in its drama, this piece was nothing short of melodramatic, dripping with unshed pain. Mycroft bit back a groan.

“You’ll be pleased to hear the lawyers have gotten your Class A illegal possession charge down to just a fine,” he said over the swell of the notes and he knew Sherlock could hear him just fine.

“Really?” the boy said after a moment, confirming Mycroft’s suspicion. “Shame. I would have done well in prison.”

Mycroft let out a crude laugh. “You would have been slaughtered in prison. Have you forgotten that brains do not generally triumph over brawn in organized communities, or has school actually taught you nothing?”

Sherlock was silent and Mycroft regretted the dig immediately. Of course he knew he brother was bullied; it was rather to be expected. He’d hoped the bullying might encourage Sherlock to work on his people skills but if anything it had done the opposite. Until John at least. It was funny the way Sherlock’s whole life could be divided as such, BJ and AJ- before and after John.

“Speaking of school, Eton is now quite happy to take you back come next Wednesday,” he said instead of apologizing. It felt about the same.

“And on which new building can I expect to find our family name upon my return?” Sherlock asked, his version of refusing the apology at all costs. Mycroft took the hint.

“None, actually,” Mycroft smiled, all teeth. If one headmaster was taking a much-needed vacation using some newfound funds, well Sherlock would have to deduce that for himself when he got back.

Sherlock rounded off the piece, brutal on his violin. “Is that all? Or would you care to gloat some more,” he asked, still not facing his brother but rather gazing out onto the forest behind them, violin still perched on his shoulder.

“No, that’s all,” Mycroft said, moving to get up. “Unless you wanted to ask me something.”

It was glaringly obvious. Sherlock’s whole body seized up, his back going rigid, and his fingers stiffened at the violin. He had too much pride to ask so Mycroft answered it for him.

“John is not well,” he answered the unspoken question, choosing honesty above comfort. “Harry says he’s lost close to a half stone. You’ve hurt him rather terribly, Sherlock.”

“So that’s why you came, isn’t it? To rub this all in my face?” Sherlock said dangerously, voice low and cutting. “The great Sherlock Holmes can’t even manage a fucking relationship without fucking it up! Because if so, good job Mycroft- message received.”

Mycroft wanted to hit him. He wanted to punch his god-awful smug face and then hug him as tightly as they both could manage without breaking. He wanted to smooth his untamable curls and kiss his forehead like he had when they were very young children. Most of all he wanted to tell him that he loved him.

But he was a Holmes and so he did none of those things. “You can fix this Sherlock,” is what he said instead, turning to leave. “You know how.”

“Send the driver to bring me to Eton, Mycroft,” Sherlock ordered as his brother left the room, having not faced him once since he’d come in. “I don’t particularly fancy seeing your face after pledging to keep clean.”

Mycroft said nothing as he left, closing the wooden door behind him. He said nothing as the same inane, high-heeled woman chased after him as he walked out of the facility. He said nothing as a valet handed him his car-keys and he said absolutely nothing as punched the dashboard of his car, sitting in traffic on the way back to London.

* * *

 

“I’m ten minutes from your house, unlock the door.”

Mycroft stared puzzled at his mobile, holding back a rather undignified laugh. “Harry, are you on the tube?” he asked, a note of amusement in his voice.

“Just getting off it actually. And since it’s only a ten minute walk to your house- get started on that door,” she chided, the sound of bustling Londoners obvious behind her.

“Did it occur to you to maybe call before you left the house, to make sure I didn’t have anyone over already?” he posed, walking down dutifully to the front door of the London flat.

Harry laughed. “Not particularly. You don’t happen to have anyone over, do you?”

Mycroft sighed. “Well, no-“

“Then problem solved!” she encouraged, a bit out of breath as she hurried in the cold. “Besides, if you had had someone over, you would’ve just kicked them out.”

Mycroft opened his mouth to reply and closed it as he realized if he had Greg spread eagle and leaking on his bed, he probably would’ve kicked him out for Harry. That staggered him for a moment and he fancied he actually stood there gaping like a fish for a good minute before Harry said,

“You don’t actually have someone over?”

Mycroft let out a low chuckle. “No Harry, I do not. Door’s unlocked.”

“Good,” she said and he could see her grin, bright and vivid against her pale skin. “Now start on dinner. I am _starved_.”

He was in the midst of a fettuccini Alfredo when Harry waltzed in through the open door, humming to herself. “Oh Mycroft, that smells divine,” she crowed, padding into the kitchen and hugging Mycroft from behind as he stood by the stove. “Is there anything you can’t do?”

“Plenty,” he shrugged off as the miniature blonde rose up on her tiptoes to kiss his cheek. “I never mastered the art of organized sports for one.”

She laughed. “I could teach you rugby, if you wanted. Or football. Even basketball, though I’m rather pants at it.”

“I simply said I wasn’t good at it, not that I wanted to learn,” he excused, tapping in a bit of garlic. Harry reached behind herself to hoist herself up onto the marble counter, legs dangling like a small child’s. It was highly unsanitary and ridiculously endearing.

“I brought a change of clothes,” she said casually, turning her head to face the genius. “Figured we’d watch a movie and fall asleep on your couch which has no business being as comfortable as it is.”

Mycroft grinned. Such an evening would have made him retch not one year ago. Now he couldn’t wait. “Aren’t we meeting Clara tomorrow?” he checked.

“Yep,” Harry smiled, thrilled. “I’ll have to leave early to get to her dorm; she wants to travel with me. I think she’s a little nervous about meeting you.”

There were plenty of reasons why one might be nervous of Mycroft Holmes. “Why is that?” he asked, curious to know which one. His money was on stalking.

“Cause I never shut up about you,” Harry bragged and Mycroft paused. “She’s texted me like five times today asking what she should wear. She really wants to impress you.”

“Why?” Mycroft asked, utterly baffled.

“Because she knows you’re important to me,” Harry explained gently, shoving Mycroft’s arm lightly. “Besides, you’re my best friend. And like the saying goes, chicks before dicks.” She stopped, rethinking what she’d just said. “Well actually, in our case it’s bros before hoes. But then, I’m not a guy-“

“Harry,” Mycroft said, mostly to stop her rambling but also to try and distract her from the ways his hands shook around the fry-pan. “Tell Ms. Clara I’m sure I’ll like her. If you love her, she must have some marvelous qualities.”

“Don’t use the-“ Harry said immediately and Mycroft sighed.

“Are you still actively denying that you love this woman, even as you’re introducing her to all your family and friends?”

Harry laughed. “Yeah, I know. Ridiculous. It’s just- I’m so scared of messing this up, Mycroft. I’m bloody terrified and normally when I’m terrified I drink, but we don’t do that anymore, and so I’m stuck being terrified and jittery and I just want this to work out.”

“Because you love her,” Mycroft filled in and Harry gave up, resting her head on his shoulder.

“Yeah, I do,” she said finally, her cropped hair tickling the underside of Mycroft’s jaw. “I haven’t told her yet, though.”

“You ought to,” he counseled and she pinched him gently, eyes glinting mischievously.

“You’re one to talk,” she pointed out. “Mr. _I have no feelings_. Have you told Greg you love him yet?”

“No,” Mycroft said simply, stirring the pasta as it cooked. “But that’s because I don’t. He and I have no formal relationship. I am merely his adulterous paramour; an outlet for his mid-life crisis.”

Harry leveled her storm eyes at him, like twin seas. “In that case, there’s a party next week. Come with me and let me hook you up with someone. Granted, we have not known each other very long Mycroft, but this is the most depressed I’ve seen you.

“What you need is a casual one-night stand,” she advised. “No emotions, not connection, no wives or kids. Just pure, epic sex.”

Mycroft moved to interrupt her and she shushed him, one finger to his lips like characters in a sitcom. He held back a poorly-hidden laugh. “Don’t try and tell me this thing with you and the inspector is monogamous. The man is married for fuck’s sake. He’s lost any right to monogamy,” Harry forged on and Mycroft moved her finger to speak.

“Won’t you be going with Clara?” he pointed out logically. Harry opened her mouth to reply, paused, and then closed it again, glaring daggers at him.

“No. Maybe,” she confessed, eyeballing him. “Okay, yes. But you won’t be a third wheel. Bros before hoes, bro!”

It was then that Mycroft actually lost it, letting out a highly undignified snort followed by peals of laughter. “I do believe you are the first person to call me ‘bro.’” he noted between laughs and Harry laughed too, holding onto the sides of the counter to keep herself up.  

“Would you prefer ‘mate?’” she teased and Mycroft let himself relax, every muscle untying and he grinned back at her.

“It’s a step better,” he agreed as he turned off the flame. “Now hand me plates unless you want to eat from the pan.”

They sat unnecessarily close on the sofa, crossed legs overlapping as they ate Alfredo and watched EastEnders. Harry was like a warm weight against his thigh, very present and very real. She laughed so easily, profile bathed in unnatural blue light, and to Mycroft it felt like home.

He didn’t notice himself drifting off until Harry was nudging him gently awake, a show he didn’t recognize playing on the telly. “Should we move to the bed?” she suggested and he nodded, stifling a yawn.

He set their plates down in the sink and turned to Harry who was shedding clothes as she walked into Mycroft’s bedroom, leaving her jumper in a pile by the door. He followed her only to find her in shorts and an oversized t-shirt of his she’d stolen, curled up under the duvet.

“Brush your teeth,” he instructed from the doorway but Harry only groaned and nuzzled deeper under the warm blankets. So he left to perform his own bedtime ritual, only returning in nightclothes with minty teeth.

Harry refused to budge as he tried to climb in so he pushed her gently to the side, making a space for himself in his own bed. “You do know there’s another bedroom,” he said carefully, looking down at her.

The blonde curled around him like an octopus. “I rather fancied a cuddle,” she said in lieu of a proper explanation and Mycroft wouldn’t have even considered objecting. He hadn’t “cuddled” with anyone in what felt like ages; Greg was always out the door minutes after sex. It was nice, this. He could see why someone might want this, might crave this.

“Love you Mycroft,” Harry murmured into his chest and he moved one hand cautiously to lay it on her back. He had never been good with this kind of platonic touching. But he was learning.

                                                                                                ***

Harry’s alarm went off at an ungodly hour. She shut it off immediately and tried to sneak quietly out of the flat, pulling on her jeans as she tugged off Mycroft’s shirt.

“I’ll meet you at the café in a few hours, alright?” she said, a comical figure with one shoe on and uncombed hair. She leaned down to brush a kiss across Mycroft’s cheek and he let her, mumbling something that sounded like a _yes_. And then she was gone, the flat door closing with a rather final snap behind her.

When Mycroft’s own alarm went off at a more suitable hour, he shut it with a wild smack and then stumbled out of bed towards the shower. The water felt like ice across his back and when he finally woke up, made heavy by Italian food and wine, he looked in the mirror rather dejectedly.

Sherlock had gotten the most from their mother, lean and long- thin without trying. Mycroft looked unquestionably like their father, just as tall but liable to get stocky with minimal effort. He’d been breaking his diet left and right and, what with the stresses of Sherlock, last night was no exception. But his brother had been right, he’d lost weight and if he pushed he could lightly feel the outer edge of his ribs through his skin.

“You’re not even 21,” he told his reflection seriously. “Try not looking like you’ve escaped from a nursing home.”

His reflection just stared back at him, a smile tugging at the corner of its smug lips. _Yeah right_ , it told him, cocking one eyebrow. _How on Earth do you expect to conquer the world if you don’t dress the part_?

His reflection had an excellent point and so when he left the flat an hour later, he wore a button-down and tailored trousers. He left the jacket at home, not wanting to actually scare Clara, and stuck to his winter coat instead.

He’d known that with Harry, late was still early, but it was 20 minutes past their meeting time and he was still sitting alone at their table in the corner. He was just about to text her when the door of their café opened and the two girls walked in, laughing as they swung their clasped hands between them.

Harry looked as lovely as always, cheeks flushed pink from the cold with a hat tugged over cropped hair. “Mycroft, long time no see,” she teased as he stood to greet her, her lips cold against his cheek as she kissed him. “This is Clara.”

Clara was beautiful. There was a word for people like her, people who looked out of place with the rest of their common folk, but Mycroft couldn’t remember it as she shed her coat, draping it over a chair. She had olive skin, still dark in winter, with long, thick black curls that reached her waist and the sort of brown eyes one could call warm. She smiled at him from a red-painted mouth, sticking out a hand from her olive-green sweater draped over black pants, tucked into boots.

“It is honestly so wonderful to meet you,” she gushed as he shook her hand. Her accent was a round, pure northern, Yorkshire most likely, with something that Mycroft suspected was Italian roots mixed in. “Harry honestly worships you,” only it came out _‘arry ‘onestly worships you._

“We have friendship bracelets,” Harry quipped and both sides laughed, the ice nicely broken.

“It’s wonderful to meet you as well,” he said, sitting back down and both girls followed suit. “Are you from North Yorkshire?”

“It’s that obvious, isn’t it?” she laughed and he smiled good-naturedly back at her. “Not everyone pegs it, because my family’s originally from-“

“Italy,” he guessed and he saw her eyes widen in surprise. “I’d wager Sicily if I had to get more specific.”

Harry beamed at him, rubbing Clara’s hand where it rested on the table. “Told you he was a proper genius,” she bragged and Mycroft felt himself swell a little inside.

“That’s amazing,” Clara said, hiding her slight discomfort and Mycroft appreciated the effort.

“That’s nothing,” Harry praised lovingly. “He can tell you anyone’s life story just by looking at them.”

Clara’s face filled with a mix of amazement and terror, the way most people who were not Watson’s faces turned when they realized the person in front of them could tell their whole life story from the turn-ups on their jeans. And so before Harry could speak, Mycroft took pity on the girl.

“Parlor trick,” he excused, taking a sip of water. “Harry exaggerates, forgive me. Now tell me a little about yourself, Clara.”

Harry shot him a menacing look but he only grinned at her and she softened, turning back adoringly to her girlfriend. By this time, a waiter had come over with menus and Clara was half hidden behind one, looking at the sandwich options.

“Uni,” she said casually, not quite looking up as her eyes skimmed the page in front of her. “Studying law, just like Harry. Only we’re coming at it from opposite sides. She wants to protect all the little guys, and I like seeing how to best manipulate them.”

Mycroft laughed. “So, defender and prosecutor?” he tried and both women shared a look that told Mycroft more than he ever wanted to know about their sex life.

“Something like that,” Harry winked and Mycroft wished, not for the first time, that he wasn’t _so_ good at deducing people.

Harry met his eyes over the table and read his face in seconds. But instead of turning crimson, like any sane person would when they’ve realized their bedroom roleplaying has just been read off their expression, the deviant had the nerve to smirk at him. Mycroft bit his lip to hold back a groan.

Oblivious to the exchange occurring next to her, Clara looked up and motioned to a waitress. The woman came over, a short redhead, and Harry smiled warmly at her.

“Hey Grace,” she said and Grace grinned back.

“Hey you two,” the redhead chirped, pulling out a pen. “The usuals, right?”

“Thank you Grace,” Mycroft nodded and the waitress turned to Clara.

“What can I get you, love?” she asked and Clara ordered a tune melt. It was as Grace was walking away that Clara looked at them again, tilting her head a bit as her eyes shifted between the two friends.

“That’s right, Harry told me I’m intruding on your weekly lunch dates,” Clara laughed stiffly. Mycroft read her instantly. So that was why she’d been so instant on Harry coming out. She was threatened by this, by their strong friendship. She worried that Harry might slip into some hetro-normative phase and fall back on her best mate, who just happened to be a man.

“Hardly an intrusion,” Mycroft soothed. “It’s wonderful to meet you. And it’s not as though I can bring Harry to meet my boyfriend.” He cringed inwardly at the term, but for Harry’s sake sacrifices must be made.

“You’re gay?” Clara said, surprised.

He tilted his glass in her direction. “Quite,” he admitted and he could visibly see her shoulders relax. Though why Clara would worry about _Harry_ deciding to turn straight was beyond him. The girl practically bled rainbows.

With that all cleared up, the lunch went wonderfully. Harry stole his cucumbers, as usual, and Clara even laughed about it. They talked about Clara’s little sister Ginny, who was almost fifteen years younger than her sister and the biggest surprise the family had ever received. The laughed about Mycroft’s internship and gossiped about the idiots in Harry’s dorm. By the time they’d polished off a shared cheesecake, Clara was gazing warmly at Mycroft, utterly wooed.

“It was absolutely wonderful meeting you,” Clara said as they parted outside the café, her right hand clasped safely in Harry’s left.

“The pleasure was entirely mine,” Mycroft insisted, lifting Clara’s hand to brush a kiss across the back of it. She giggled, a rich chocolaty sound, and smiled.

Harry let go of her girlfriend’s hand long enough to hug Mycroft tight around the middle and rise on her tiptoes to whisper in his ear. “You’re a doll and I love you. Call me later.” And with that, the two women walked down the street, bumping up against each other, completely enamored with one another.

Mycroft watched them for a second, deliriously happy and sad at the same time. It was troubling; he’d always done his best to keep his feelings to an absolute minimum. But Harry had a way of turning everything he’d ever held on its head. And so, a bit lost in his own mind, Mycroft stuffed his hands in his trouser pockets and walked back home

Harry was littered all over the flat, from the forgotten jumper by his bedroom to the unmade bed with a Harry-shaped ball in the middle of it. Their dishes from last night, white plates stained with Alfredo sauce, still sat in the kitchen sink and Mycroft stared at them a long moment before deciding to wash them later.

 

* * *

 

Mycroft woke up to a pounding on his door. He glanced at the clock by his bedside and groaned as the numbers blinked back 1:30 am. With a sigh, he pushed himself out of bed and shuffled to the door, not even bothering with a dressing gown. He was dressed in nothing more than a worn tee-shirt and too-loose pyjama bottoms when he opened the door and blinked in the face of Greg Lestrade.

The inspector was in a tan leather coat with a duffle bag hanging from one shoulder and he looked at Mycroft uneasily, as though guilty about waking the younger man up.

“We’ve separated,” he rambled in lieu of an explanation. “Well, not permanently, it’s not divorce yet, we’re sort of just seeing what it would be like living apart and I’m sorry to wake you but I figured-“

He cut off abruptly as Mycroft woke up, grabbed him by his jacket lapels and threw him up against the inside wall, snogging the life out him. Their lips crashed together nearly painfully, more teeth than anything else, and Greg struggled to keep speaking around Mycroft’s mouth.

“I’ll only stay the night,” he excused as Mycroft, undeterred, moved to his neck. “Tomorrow I’ll find a bedsit, or a hotel even-“

“Gregory,” Mycroft snapped sharply, pulling back. “If you stay in a hotel, I will kill you.”

Greg’s gaze flickered over his face before smiling softly. “Message received,” he said after a moment, still grinning like an idiot. Mycroft let go only to shut the front door behind them before taking Greg’s hand and tugging him towards the bedroom as they giggled like schoolboys, Greg’s duffle bag forgotten on the floor. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See, I don't always make angst! Sometimes I do nice things! (AKA you should all be suspicious as fuck)
> 
> Also this chapter is dedicated to my darling kandyblood who drew me pictures and also asked for Harry-Mycroft friendship bracelets long before there were actually Harry-Mycroft friendship bracelets.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this chapter listening to "Where I Stood," by Missy Higgins so if you're the kind of person who listens to music while they read, I recommend that.

The sun filtered in through the open blinds, casting lazy shadows on the two tangled figures. Mycroft found himself with his face in Greg’s armpit, his left leg wedged between the man’s own two legs and the cotton sheets knotting them together. It wasn’t the most unpleasant position but Mycroft untangled himself anyway, turning so he was looking the older man in the eye.

Greg was smiling at him, eyes still lazy with sleep. “Hey,” he whispered, voice rough and unused, as he raised a hand from the mess between them to run it through Mycroft’s rampant curls.

“Good morning,” Mycroft smiled back, unsure of himself. “How’d you sleep?”

“Not enough,” Greg groaned, arching his back as it cracked. “You kept me up all night.”

Mycroft let out a soft laugh, grinning as Greg eased back down next to him, fingers tracing soft skin slowly, relearning muscles and bones. “I didn’t hear any complaints,” he protested.

“And you won’t hear any this morning,” Greg promised, one finger reaching out to trace the teen’s lips, dipping in a drop before pulling out with a grin too wicked for early Monday mornings. Something hung in the air between them, something pleasant and undemanding and laced with whispers of more and they both let it hang there, undisturbed and ignored.

Mycroft ran his hand up the older man’s chest, resting somewhere near his heart. “I’m glad you’re here,” he confessed, surprised as the words left his mouth. But Greg only smiled back, nudging Mycroft’s nose with his own, sharing breath.

“C’mere,” he murmured and Mycroft was suddenly pulled into a kiss, gentle and perfect the way it was. Their lips met twice, open mouthed and slightly off-target but they were lovely kisses and Mycroft leaned into them, coming in closer until he was straddling Greg; the creaking of the bed beneath them and their soft pants the only sounds in the flat.

“Do you have class today?” Greg asked around Mycroft’s tongue, fingers tangling in the boy’s hair.

Mycroft toyed with his hands on Greg’s chest, one resting firmly against the man’s heart as the other skimmed up and down his side, absentmindedly counting his ribs. “Just two,” he admitted slowly, rolling his hips ever so slightly and grinning as one short moan escaped the inspector’s lips.

“You should go; you’ll be late,” Greg protested half-heartedly, straining back up to kiss Mycroft again, hair falling in each other’s faces.

Mycroft complied, immensely grateful neither man had thought to get dressed last night. “I have time,” he promised, the friction escalating from a low, pleasant burn to something more intense.

Greg raised one eyebrow, perfectly poised even as he pressed against the teen, wordlessly asking for more. “How much time?” he teased and Mycroft only winked.

 

Twenty minutes later found them in Mycroft’s small shower, Greg’s hands gently washing the inside of the younger man’s thighs.

“You’re going to be late,” he remarked as Mycroft rested his forehead against his, eyes closed in sensation.

“Ask me if I care,” he shot back and Greg laughed, kissing Mycroft through the wet spray.

Mycroft was unbearably happy. He hadn’t been this happy since early childhood, perhaps never. Greg had only been in the flat a week, and yet it felt like years as they moved smoothly together, orbiting each other perfectly, without any demands to classify or name what they were.  

“Let’s have dinner tonight,” he said suddenly and Greg glanced back at him, eyes shifting lower before settling back on the boy’s own.

“I’ll cook,” he promised and Mycroft pushed him back against the tiled wall, kissing him hungrily and it was magic, it was wonder, it was perfection and god, Mycroft did not deserve to be this happy.

 

* * *

 

The drive up to Cambridge felt like nothing more than an inconvenience and he bit his lip to keep from chuckling as he strode into his last class and found the professor ready with pages and pens.

“Ah, Mr. Holmes has decided to grace us with his presence today,” he joked and the class laughed as Mycroft swung his bag off his shoulder and sat down. “Just in time for a pop quiz.”

Mycroft only smirked as the paper hit his desk. He hadn’t opened his textbook since the day he’d grudgingly bought it. And yet, skimming the questions, he didn’t expect this nonsense to take more than twenty minutes.

He was wrong. It took him ten. And the professor had the good sense to look mildly annoyed as Mycroft handed in his paper, shrugged back on his bag, and walked out of the classroom as the door closed behind him. Utter waste of his time.

“It’s crazy how you can do that.”

Mycroft turned around. The path was still littered with the light dusting of snow they’d gotten a few days back and his breath made small clouds as he faced the ten behind him. The boy was foreign-looking, tanned skin and black hair that curled under his red beanie. His green eyes seemed to dance as he smiled at Mycroft, tilting his head.

“You just walk in and ace a test; it’s crazy,” the teen explained, hands in the pockets of his worn black jeans. “We all hate you for that.”

“Honored, I’m sure,” Mycroft offered, still confused and the boy stepped closer. He had two freckles on his nose that should have made him look lopsided but just made him look unique.

“Chris,” he introduced, sticking out an ungloved hand. “Chris Melas.”

“Mycroft Holmes,” Mycroft returned, shaking the offered hand. It was soft, oddly enough, with violin callouses by the fingertips.

“I know,” Chris smiled, letting go and placing his hand back in his pocket. “We all do.”

Mycroft stared at him, not wanting to admit he was unnerved. He couldn’t read anything from the boy, bulky black coat in the way of any real data, and all he got was Chris’s offputtingly sincere face, still smiling.

“Can I help you, Chris?” he asked finally and the boy, Greek obviously, just beamed.

“I want to get coffee with you,” he explained.

“I’m seeing someone,” Mycroft protested instinctually.

“And I’m straight,” Chris promised, hands raised in surrender. When Mycroft kept staring, he went on. “I’d like to be your friend, Mycroft.”

“Why?” the genius asked and Chris had the audacity to wink.

“You’ll have to come to coffee to find out,” he shrugged and turned to walk away. “Same time same place next week, Mr. Holmes,” he called over his shoulder and Mycroft could only watch him walk away, still utterly puzzled.

 

* * *

 

“And you just let him walk away?” Harry berated, warming her hands on a cup of tea.

Mycroft laughed at her horrified expression. “Yes Harry, I let the strange, slightly stalkerish boy walk away from me.”

“But you love stalkerish. You _are_ stalkerish,” she protested meekly, sipping at her too-hot tea.

“And Chris Melas seems to put me to shame,” he replied and she giggled, tongue singed.

She set down the cup, ruffling her hair with her right hand. They were back inside this week, the waiters smiling at them kindly from behind the counter. Harry had claimed his cucumbers early on and was now well into her tea, sipping like one might nibble at a piece too big. “Well?” she prompted.

“Well what?” Mycroft asked, taking the bait.

“Are you going to meet him next week?” she asked, eyes shining with potential drama.

But Mycroft only shook his head. “I don’t think so.”

“Why not?”

“Because I don’t even know him,” Mycroft sighed, trying his own tea. It was too weak, and in desperate need of sugar but it would make due. “Why on earth would I get coffee with him?”

“To _get_ to know him, stupid,” Harry explained, shaking her head in shame. “Honestly, you call yourself a genius?”

“I’m quite alright on the friend count, thank you for worrying,” he assured her, drinking his own tea.

She raised one eyebrow. “Who else do you have besides me?” she teased, meaning it as only that- a jab in the side, but Mycroft’s silence made her uneasy.

“I don’t need any more,” he said finally, only to break the rapidly-forming ice and Harry blinked at him. It was a Watson curse, it seemed. The rest of the world looked at Holmeses and wondered why any sane man would speak to them. Watsons looked at them and wondered why they didn’t have the world at their door, begging to be their friend. It took a particular brand of insanity to wish friends upon a Holmes.

Harry shifted in her seat, a sign of changed topics. “There’s another party tomorrow night. Clara’s not even coming to this one, she has a paper due. It’ll be just you and me,” she offered, asking gently.

But it was Mycroft’s turn to not make eye contact. “I don’t know if I can,” he said, mumbled more likely, playing with his fork. “Now that Gregory’s in the flat, it’d be odd if I just-“

“Dammit Mycroft,” Harry cut him off but there was no venom in her words, just exasperation. “That man has consumed your life. We had to reschedule three times. Us. I reschedule Clara for you and now-“

She paused, deliberately, and Mycroft called her out on it.

“Say it Harry,” he pushed and she flushed, glancing out the window.

“I shouldn’t,” she protested and he only stared at her until she relented. “Okay fine. I don’t- I don’t think Greg is good for you.”

Mycroft paused, waiting for the joke, but when it seemed none was coming he barked out a laugh. “Oh that’s rich, Harry. Have you such a short memory that you’ve forgotten that it was _you_ who encouraged me to go for him, _you_ who told me I wasn’t moving fast enough-“

“That was back when it was some dumb affair!” she yelled and the café fell silent, turning on them. “There weren’t any _feelings_ involved,” she went on, quieter, leaning in. “Now he’s living with you, he’s left his bloody wife but they aren’t even bloody _divorced_ yet, and you’re-“

“Harry-“he cautioned, putting out one hand but she steamrolled over it.

“He’s living with you and he wouldn’t even get a cup of coffee with you outside the flat,” she finished, and hell she looked close to crying. Mycroft was not even close to prepared for this. “I’m worried about you Mycroft.”

Mycroft waited, unsure how to respond. “Gregory is a good person,” he said finally, only because he felt it needed to be said.

Harry laughed, a bitter thing. “I’m sure he’s a wonderful person, My. People can be fucking angels and still have unhealthy relationships.”

Mycroft wanted to shake her, wanted to yell at her, wanted to cry like a baby on her shoulder. He did none of those things. “Has he told anyone about you two?” Harry asked finally, hands clutching her mug like a raft in choppy waters.

“We’re not like that,” Mycroft protested and she only looked at him, sea eyes full of something unnamed and unmoored.

“Then what are you?” she asked and Mycroft had a million answers and none at all.

 

* * *

 

“ _Dinner? - MH”_ Mycroft texted Greg as he left campus two days later, walking towards his car.

The reply was near instantaneous. “ _Not a good night. I’m eating out actually.”_

Mycroft stared at that text for longer than he would ever admit to. _Who_ was the first question on his mind but he squashed it down and texted _“Where?-MH_ ” instead because it was substantially safer.

He was on the thruway when Greg texted back, _“McDonalds._ ” That left a grand total of three places Greg could be, based solely on their proximity to the Yard and the flat. A normal man would go home and wait for his boyfriend? Roommate? Lover? to come back where they could discuss these things in private.

Mycroft was not even close to a normal man.

He blamed it on Harry, on the niggling doubt she’d put in his mind as to just what the hell this even was. At least that’s what he told himself as he found Greg in the second McDonalds on his list, seated in a booth by the window. He strode in, his first time in any place like this, and double-taked at the two figures seated across from the inspector.

“Mycroft!” Greg called, surprised, and twin brown eyes turned to blink at him out of child faces. “I didn’t expect you to come here.”

“Neither did I,” Mycroft admitted, coming over and Greg slid down the bench instinctually to make room for him. He was now face-to-face with two little girls, one no older than two.

“Mycroft, my daughters,” Greg offered, gesturing to the children. Mycroft knew little about kids but he knew enough to realize these two were quiet, unnaturally so. “That’s Kaley and that’s Beth.”

Kaley had straight brown hair and even bangs that just covered her forehead but Beth had her mother’s blonde hair, a mop of it gathered back into pigtails. Both girls wore pink and grubby trainers, hands linked on the bench in front of their father.

“Girls, this is Daddy’s friend Mycroft,” Greg tried and Mycroft turned to look at him. He looked worn, but his laugh lines looked deeper and beneath his obvious worry at Mycroft’s presence he held loving serenity in his eyes. He would never admit how badly that shook him up.

“You could have brought them to the flat,” Mycroft protested softly, in a whisper, unnerved by the silent children. Is this what separation did to toddlers? He tried to imagine how Sherlock had been after their father had left, but that had been different. Sherlock was always an odd child, not even talking until he was four.

“I wasn’t sure you’d like that,” Greg admitted and then Kaley spoke up, tiny voice near lost in the chatter of the restaurant.

“Are you gonna eat dinner with us?” she asked, precocious and darling but Mycroft could only feel burning hatred towards her. That surprised him a minute, the white heat of his intense hate for these two perfect children, but he understood it.

Here they sat, the living embodiments of Greg’s love for his wife. Maybe not now, but once he’d loved her enough to make two tiny people with her, had pledged her eighteen years at the minimum. Never had the term _homewrecker_ stung more deeply than it did now.

“No, I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Mycroft said genially, trying to smile at her and she visibly flinched. Wrong smile.

Beth opened her mouth, pearl teeth glinting ominously. “Gah fa man,” she assured and Greg beside him laughed.

“Very good baby, Mycroft is a man,” he encouraged her and this was a side of Greg Mycroft had never seen before. The father. Christ, it had been so easy to forget that Greg was a father, a wonderful father by the looks of it.

Mycroft hated children. Mycroft had no idea what to do with children. And Greg had two of them, beautiful and lively and chattery and distinctly female and Mycroft felt sick.

Mycroft stood, nausea threating to materialize. “I’ll see you back at the flat,” he said to Greg, moving to leave but Kaley was five and far too old for such bullshit.

“Daddy lives with you?” she asked and both men froze, like thieves caught with their hands in the safe.

“Yes,” Greg said after a moment, looking at his daughter and not his boyfriend? Roommate? Lover? “Daddy’s living with his friend Mycroft while he and Mummy and taking a little break.”

Was that how’d they’d explained it to their children? A little break- nothing short of temporary? A holiday taken apart?

“Is that why you left Mummy? Cause you wanted to live with My-roft?” she asked, butchering his name and before Greg could say a word, he spoke.

“Yes, exactly,” he interjected, like a bloody dog marking its territory. _He left your fucking Mummy for me. For me, you bratty little girl. You mean fucking nothing._ And then he strode away from those two sins he’d caused and Greg’s broken eyes.

 

Greg came home a few hours later and they’d argued. _Not okay_ , Greg had shouted at him, they’d broken a vase and two mugs and then shagged each other’s brains out on the couch and the floor and finally in the bed, all anger gone by the third time. It was like claiming and staking and Mycroft was vaguely aware as he sucked a hickey into the older man’s neck that he was subconsciously fighting two children. He didn’t even care anymore.

He’d fallen asleep, after that last slow ride, but he woke up to the sound of voices at the door. Stumbling out of bed and into a dressing gown, he shuffled to the hall, partially hidden behind a wall and he could make out the conversation at the front door of the flat.

“-the fucking kids, Greg! How dare you let that man meet our fucking kids?”

“Don’t you dare harp on me Caroline.” That was Greg, voice deliciously hoarse and Mycroft realized with a sleepy start that it was the wife at the door past midnight and pissed.

“Now I’ve got Kaley, asking me if I’ve met’ Daddy’s new friend My-roft’ and fucking hell, Greg. What the hell were you thinking, introducing your little fucktoy to the kids?”

“It wasn’t a bloody introduction,” Greg fought back and Mycroft really should not be hearing this conversation. “And you have no right to judge me, not after Mark-“

“I never introduced Mark to our kids!” Caroline shouted and Mycroft was going to get noise complaints. “You wanna fuck some boy young enough to be our kid, that’s your bloody problem. But don’t you let him near my babies-“

There was a beat of silence and then a “Damn it Greg, I was trying to fix us. I know I made some pretty terrible mistakes but I was trying to be better.”

“Yeah, well I wasn’t,” Greg said just as soft and Mycroft took that as his cue to make an entrance.

“Gregory, what’s going on?” he called out, feigning the sleepiness he’d lost two curses ago and stumbling into the den.

Caroline’s eyes widened near comically at the sight of him. She was just as disheveled as him, in sweatpants and a winter coat thrown over a man’s jumper _Greg’s jumper_ , blonde hair stuffed in a messy bun and fuck him but she still looked like a supermodel.

“You’re staying in his flat?” she asked, not even acknowledging him.

“Where did you think I was staying?” Greg shot back and Caroline looked at him again. He was blissfully aware of how shagged-out he looked and he reveled in it.

“I don’t know, with one of the other coppers you work with, not the little whore himself,” Caroline shouted and Greg moved towards her.

“Car-“he stared but she talked right over him.

“Don’t give me that shit, Greg. He knows exactly what he is, little fucking homewrecking slut. Are you happy now?” she asked, finally turning to Mycroft. “You got everything you ever wanted, you bloody whore. Broke up a marriage, left two kids in the middle of a warzone. Does that make you happy?”

Mycroft met her gaze across the room. “Deliriously,” he drawled and she actually growled.

“Caroline, that’s enough,” Greg warned and she stepped back, aware of herself again.

“Stay away from my kids,” she said finally, staring Mycroft down, before turning heel and walking away. Greg shut the door after her and turned back to Mycroft, coming over with gentle hands and soft lips.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured against the teen’s flesh, fingers petting his hair. “That wasn’t okay. She shouldn’t have said those things to you.”

“She’s right,” Mycroft said simply and Greg let go, staring at him. “You and I started… _this_ while you were still married. We can’t hide that. When we start telling people, they’ll say worse.”

Greg actually paled. “Have you started? Telling people?”

Mycroft felt like a fawn on shaky legs, unsure of what he was supposed to do. “Do you not- want to?” he asked, Harry’s voice like a siren in the back of his head.

Greg was quiet a beat too long and Mycroft felt his heart sink- no, shatter was a better word. He turned away, striding into the kitchen as he tied his dressing gown a bit tighter and Greg followed him; bare feet echoing on the tile.

“It’s not like that My, nothing like that,” he promised as Mycroft filled the kettle, plugging it into the wall. “My, look at me.”

Mycroft turned, unwillingly, as the kettle let out soft noises behind him. Greg took his hands, manicured ones lost in hard-worked calloused ones.

“This isn’t about my sexual identity crisis, although fucking hell I’m having one but that’s between me and myself and has nothing to do with you,” Greg said, stepping in a centimeter too close.

“I can’t tell you how many careers I’ve seen gone to the dogs because it gets out the new kid’s screwing the boss,” Greg went on gently, meeting his eyes. If this was anyone else, Mycroft would've been able to read the lie written all over their face. But this was Greg and he saw nothing more than sincerity and his own projected love.

“You’re just starting out and god, you’ll be so bright and so wonderful and I don’t want-“ Greg paused, weighing his words. “I don’t want to delegitimize that. Not even for a minute.”

“I love you,” Mycroft blurted out and the room felt filled with those three words. “God,” he gasped, his ribs painfully tight. “I’ve never- fuck it I’ve never said that to anyone an we’ve only been doing _this_ for a few months but I-“

“I love you too,” Greg promised and it was like Mycroft could fucking _breathe_ again and Greg was his oxygen, he could inhale him and live happily forever on just the scent of his cologne and the underlying musk of his skin, wooden and raw and _Greg_ -

“I’ve loved you since that first kiss, in the back of a cab outside my house,” Greg went on and somewhere behind Mycroft, the kettle was beeping but neither man gave a damn, lost as they were in something otherworldly and wonderful.

 

* * *

 

He texted John as they lay tangled in each other under the morning gray sky, Greg’s breath only small, warm patches on his back. _His room is 643A. Wotton House. The dame is Donna Parks. Tell her you’re his cousin.- MH_

John replied ridiculously fast for someone at 6 am. _Did he ask for me?_

 _I think he’s ready to see you, whether he asked or not.- MH_ Mycroft promised, although it was not his place. Behind him, Greg stirred, burrowing deeper into the warm wall of flesh that was Mycroft and their bed could be the dictionary definition for bliss.

John was no such idiot as Mycroft. _Will he talk to me?_

 _I don’t know. But I wouldn’t have given you the information if I didn’t think he would.- MH_ Mycroft typed out, shifting to let Greg’s head fall on his chest, mobile held aloft above them both.

The next text was too much for any sane man to handle as he sent a good man, a kind man, into the lion’s den to be eaten alive. _Thank you Mycroft._

 _No John._ He protested because he had to. Had to warn John, even though he’d break in half if he ever left his brother. And god, if that wasn’t the most messed-up thing on this earth he didn’t know what was. _Never thank me. I’m only using you- MH_

 _It’s okay Mycroft. It’s okay._ And that was the thing about Watsons. They let you use them up, suck them dry and scoop them out into mere shells and then came back to love you anyway. Watsons should be locked up. Watsons should be given good people, lovely people, people with hearts to love.

 _The next train to Eton leaves in twenty minutes- MH_ But then what were heartless people to do for lunch company and unused advice?

_I know._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Why do y'all like me so much? I'm an awful human being who does awful things. I'm sorry.


	7. Chapter 7

“John came home humming yesterday,” Harry laughed over the phone. Mycroft bustled around the flat’s kitchen, setting the kettle to boil as he fixed breakfast. “I was over visiting my mum and he walked in glowing. Know anything about that?”

“No idea,” Mycroft feigned casualty and he could hear Harry’s smile.

“We ordered Chinese and he ate, Mycroft. I’m so happy,” she beamed through his mobile. “Thank you.”

“I did nothing,” he insisted. There was a noise from farther off and then Greg was stumbling into the kitchen, hair a nest and pyjama shirt rucked up around his hipbones. God bless lazy days off. “It’s your brother who’s the saint.”

“Don’t I know it,” she muttered as Greg came up behind him, wrapping his arms around Mycroft’s waist as the younger man filled two cups. He was warm and rumpled and soft and Mycroft bit the inside of his lower lip to keep from grinning.

“We still on for Monday?” she asked after a moment and Mycroft hissed, pulling out leaves to steep. Greg complained it was too posh, he should just stick to bags, but Mycroft had been raised how he’d been raised.

“No; I’m having lunch with that Melas character you’re so keen for me to get to know,” he reminded her and Harry sighed.

“Right,” she reminded herself. “And don’t sound so put out. You make it sound like friends are a chore.”

Greg was mouthing dry kisses to the back of his neck with chapped lips and a hint of stubble and Mycroft desperately needed to turn around and snog the living daylights out of him. “How about Thursday?” he tried instead.

“Yeah that’s-“ Harry paused, making an odd sort of noise. “We can do it then,” she went on as though she hadn’t been interrupted.

One hand was slowly sneaking its way across this stomach, pushing up his shirt and tugging open drawstrings and it was getting progressively harder to concentrate. “I look forward to it,” he struggled out.

“I need to- mph- tell you something,” Harry near moaned and Mycroft put two and two together.

“Tell Clara I say hi,” he teased and Harry laughed out loud. “Call you later,” Mycroft promised as he hung up the phone.

He turned fully in Greg’s arms and the man grinned, eyes still tinged with sleep. “Finally,” the inspector grumbled and then warm lips were on his own and tea was promptly forgotten.

 

* * *

 

Chris Melas looked like winter itself, bundled up in a black coat with a red scarf. “Knew you’d show up,” he smiled as Mycroft walked up the path to the biology building. “Come on. I know a great coffee place near here.”

Said coffee place was called “Tea You in Heaven,” and Chris got them a table near the back. He chattered ceaselessly as he unwound his scarf and unzipped his jacket, revealing a worn jumper over a black vest that peaked out one strap. _A well of information, at last_. And Mycroft didn’t even mind the chatter because it was _interesting_.

“-only ever found this place because the owner’s from Aleppo. Loves it when I speak Arabic with him-“

“You speak Arabic?” Mycroft asked, surprised and Chris grinned. It was off kilter and should’ve looked odd in his face but all Mycroft could think was _he has really white teeth_.

“A bit. Obviously Greek’s my first language but the Mum’s from Syria. I picked it up along the way,” he explained, looking up as a waitress came over.

“Salaam Marcell,” Chris smiled. “Kayfa Halluk?”

The waitress, a pretty girl in a hijab, beamed at him. Mycroft spoke only a little Arabic, enough to get the gist of the sentence asa _how are you?_ Chris was becoming more fascinating by the second.

“Al Hamdulilah,” Marcell answered quickly before turning to Mycroft. “Kaif momken asaedak?”

“Oh, he doesn’t speak Arabic,” Chris teased and Marcell bit back a giggle. “Two coffees, with sugar and milk and tell your Uncle I’d love to see him if he has a spare second.”

“Should I take it personally that you’ve ordered for me?” Mycroft asked, raising one eyebrow and Chris smiled good-naturedly as Marcell hurried away.

“No one makes coffee like the middle easterners; trust me,” Chris promised, settling back. “Lord knows I’ve tried but I get nowhere close.”

Mycroft studied him a moment, intrigued. “So you speak Arabic as well as Greek. Anything else I should know?” he asked finally.

“You tell me,” Chris shot back. “You’re the genius. They say you can tell someone their whole life story from a single glance. What do you get from me?”

Mycroft paused a beat for dramatic affect. Naturally, he’d read Chris the minute the boy had shed his bulky winter coat but you’d be wrong in assuming that of the two Holmes boys, _Sherlock_ was the more dramatic one.

“Only one question,” he said finally. “Why is it that a boy from a wealthy family is trying to hide it all under second-hand clothes?”

Mycroft relished the moment that Chris’s eyes widened in shock and then the boy laughed out loud. “Go on, tell me,” he prompted, still chuckling. “How’d you work that out?”

“Easy,” Mycroft brushed off. “Your mannerisms scream good breeding, from the way your ankles cross even as you’re leaning back to your interlocked hands on the table. But your jumper is from a thrift shop and your jeans are too worn to be owned solely by you.”

Chris nodded his head. “Correct on all accounts. Things are fine between the parents and I, not to worry you. I just figured I’d try supporting myself without their money through Uni, see how that goes. With the translating work for the courts I get on the side, I can pretty much cover my food. Clothes are a stretch though,” he admitted as Marcell came back, bearing two steaming mugs.

“Shukran jazilan, Marcell,” Chris smiled at her and she smiled back before hurrying away. Mycroft took a tentative sip of his coffee before continuing and paused. It was perfect.

“Told you,” Chris gloated at Mycroft’s expression. “They get the milk to beans ration right. It’s an art form.”

“Indeed,” Mycroft agreed, chuckling internally. “So that’s what you want to do then, is it? Translating?” he asked after a moment and Chris shook his head.

“Interpreting,” he clarified. “The difference is in the nuance. I have a gift for languages; be a shame not to use it.”

“I’m sure your parents are thrilled,” Mycroft offered and Chris laughed out loud.

“Not remotely,” he admitted, drinking his own coffee. “They want me in some government job; you know what I mean. You’re just as well-bred as I am, aren’t you?”

“I’m majoring in Political Science,” Mycroft offered in lieu of an answer and Chris only chuckled.

“But I can’t stomach all that,” the foreign boy said instead. “I want to see the world; not as a politician but by ones side.”

“How many languages do you speak?” Mycroft asked and Chris paused a second, counting.

“Four,” he decided finally. “English, Greek, Arabic and French. Although once you know one romance language, you know them all so my Spanish and Italian are quite passable. How about you?”

“Six,” Mycroft said immediately. “Seven if you count Latin, but you can’t really speak a dead language.”

Chris whistled. “You should be the one pursuing a career in Interpretation,” he teased, smiling broadly at the genius.

“I don’t think I’d have the patience for it,” Mycroft shrugged, a bit flattered.

“But you have the patience for politics?” Chris shot back and Mycroft smirked.

“Well played,” Mycroft inclined his own head, amused. “So the fact that you’re in my Governments of the World course is simply…interest?”

“I’m trying to figure out what language to learn next,” Chris confessed. “Pays to study global hotspots. I’m debating between Mandarin and Afrikaans.”

“I speak rudimentary Mandarin, if you ever need any help,” Mycroft offered and Chris looked surprised at the gesture.

“That’s kind of you,” he colored, playing with the handle of his mug. “I’ll keep it in mind.”

There was a beat of silence, surprisingly not awkward at all, before Mycroft prompted, “So since you’re studying global conflicts, you must have an interesting opinion on the crisis in the Middle East.”

It turned out that Chris had a _fascinating_ opinion on the Middle East conflict. In fact, Chris had a fascinating opinion of several topics, ranging from politics to book recommendations. Their coffee had been gone a good two hours by the time Chris glanced at his watch and started.

“Shit, it’s near four. I have to go,” he apologized and Mycroft raised his hands good-naturedly.

“I should go as well,” he remarked as neither man moved to leave. “You know,” he added after a moment, “you still haven’t told me why it was you wanted to be my friend.”

“Do I need an ulterior motive for being your friend?” Chris teased.

“People generally do,” Mycroft shrugged, unconcerned.

“Because you’re interesting,” Chris grinned finally. “Because I came to Cambridge thinking everyone would be fantastic and engaging and worldly and nearly everyone is perfectly _boring_. Do you know what I mean?”

Mycroft stared at him a minute across the table. “I know exactly what you mean,” he let out in a breath.

“But I knew, from the first minute I saw you, that you wouldn’t be,” the boy flattered. “I wasn’t wrong.”

“We should do this again sometime,” Mycroft suggested, almost as a shock to himself, but Chris beamed.

“If you ever decide to go to class,” he teased and Mycroft took it good-naturedly. “But yeah. This was nice. Hold on a sec,” he said and then suddenly Mycroft’s mobile was in his hand without Mycroft having felt a thing.

Oh, Chris was _engrossing_.

“Pardon the pocket-picking,” the boy shrugged off, unconcerned. “Old habits and all. But here’s my number,” he said, handing the phone back. “Ring me if you’re so inclined.”

“Still taken,” Mycroft gibed, more for rapport’s sake than anything else.

“And still very straight,” Chris smirked back, pulling on his coat as he stood. An old, Arabic-looking man who could only have been Marcell’s uncle came out from behind the counter, reaching to hug the Greek boy, and Mycroft took that as his cue to leave.

“Goodbye,” he waved as he left some bills on the table; he had no idea how much the coffee had even cost but he estimated.

Chris broke from his rapid chatter in Arabic _Only speaks a bit, my arse_ to wave back. “See you soon, Mycroft.”

Mycroft stumbled out into the cold and headed towards his car. It wasn’t until he was sliding into the driver’s seat and closing the door that he realized he hadn’t stopped grinning since the restaurant.

                                                                                   . . .

Mycroft came home at eight to a quiet flat. Greg’s shoes sat by the front door and so he called out “Gregory?” as he shed his coat, draping it over a chair.

“Bathtub,” Greg called back and Mycroft toed off his own shoes before padding over to the bathroom. The door was an inch ajar and the room was full of steam. Greg sat in Mycroft’s tub, head resting on the edge with his arms dangling over the sides, eyes closed. But he blinked them open as Mycroft entered and offered a tired smile.

“Long day?” Mycroft teased, coming in to sit on the toilet seat, a few inches from the inspector’s head.

“You don’t know the half of it,” he sighed, turning his neck to meet Mycroft’s eye. “I can’t even feel all my muscles.”

“Do you want me to kiss them better?” Mycroft teased, scrubbing his fingers through Greg’s hair. The man leaned back into the touch, a soft _oh_ escaping his lips.

“I wouldn’t object to the idea,” he murmured, near drowsy. He blinked to clear his rapidly closing eyes and inclined his head. “You’re welcome to join me if you’d like.”

“This tub’s already too small for one adult male,” Mycroft smiled fondly but Greg only winked at him, making Mycroft’s blood run south. It was a dangerous Pavlovian response. Meet Greg’s eye, get an erection. The teen was asking for trouble.

“We can squeeze,” the older man offered. “It’d be a tight fit…but I’d manage.”

“Manage,” Mycroft scoffed but he stood and shed his shirt and trousers, trying not to notice how Greg’s eyes followed him as he pulled out his belt from its loops. Of course Greg was naked too, glorious miles of wet skin, but there was something strangely intimate about this undressing. It wasn’t a quick shedding of clothes in the heat of sex but something tenderer. A show almost.

“You are absolutely beautiful,” Greg said softly as Mycroft pulled off his vest. The genius instantly flushed, immediately uncomfortable. “You are,” Greg insisted, a bit firmer. “I don’t get this insecurity of yours.”

It was a bit hard to explain, wasn’t it? It wasn’t as simple as ‘My little shit of a brother calls me fat every chance he gets,’ because that would have been pathetic in the extreme. No, it was that Mycroft had been called ‘edible,” had been called ‘deliciously fuckable,’ had even been called ‘sexy’ once but never _beautiful_. Like he was worth something.

“You’re not too bad yourself,” he bantered, because he wasn’t sure what else to say, and then tugged off his pants before stepping into the bath. The water was still warm and it was tight as Mycroft squeezed himself up against the opposite side of the bath, his legs drawn up to his chest. Greg’s were splayed out, a picture of casualty, and they framed Mycroft’s body, feet resting on either side of him.

They stared at each other a minute, heat warm between them, before Greg reached out affectionately with one hand. “Why are you all the way over there?” he teased tenderly. “Don’t be a stranger.”

Unsure, Mycroft leaned forward, knees resting on the bottom of the tub so he knelt between Greg’s open legs. Their mouths met and it was a sinfully lazy kiss, not one ounce of effort but sweet nevertheless. Mycroft’s hand came up to cup the back of Greg’s head, resting between his skull and the ceramic rim and one of Greg’s hands left the side of the bath to come around Mycroft’s back, tracing patterns on his flesh, raising goose bumps.

“I’ve never done this before,” Mycroft confessed between their mouths, Greg’s lips soft against his own.

“Really?” Greg asked, surprised, and Mycroft drew back an inch to look at him. Greg reached up a hand to rest against Mycroft’s cheek warmly, making the space between them feel like no space at all. “Although I’ll admit I’m not that surprised. I know you’re experienced, in the bedroom you’re practically an animal, but sometimes I feel like you’re a virgin,” he admitted, stroking the top of his cheekbone.

“Is that your way of asking me how many partners I’ve had?” Mycroft teased but inside his stomach bunched into knots. He knew what a normal number of bed partners was and his was assuredly…not. He could always lie, but he made it a point to never lie to Greg. It was refreshing, all this honestly between them.

“Maybe,” Greg laughed, kissing his forehead. “Look, I’ll go first. I’ve had sex with…thirteen people.”

“Thirteen?” Mycroft repeated nervously, but not for the reasons Greg assumed.

“Yeah, I know it’s kind of a lot, considering how young I got married, but I went a little crazy in my junior year of Uni,” he shrugged off, embarrassed. “What about you?”

Mycroft took a deep breath. “Fifty-six,” he let out and Greg’s hand dropped suddenly.

“Fifty-six?” he stammered, eyes wide. “Jesus, that’s-“

“A lot, I’m well aware,” Mycroft shrunk back against the opposite side of the bath, drawing his knees up again protectively.

“Thirty is a lot, Myc. Fifty-six is…” Greg trailed off, unsure.

“Would it make a difference if I said you’re the first one I’ve ever had a relationship with?” Mycroft tried, incredibly uncomfortable.

“Not actually, no,” Greg answered and the only sound was the slight movement of water around them. “You had sex with fifty-six strangers? You’re twenty years old Myc, that’s-“

“Eleven a year on average, since I became sexually active at fifteen,” he filled in the blanks. “But it’s not like that. I just- I’m not a whore.”

“Never said you were,” Greg muttered.

“It was implied,” Mycroft shrugged off. “But I’m not. I just-“

“You don’t have to justify how many partners you’ve had to me,” Greg said and the tender tone was back, Greg’s eyes warm and comforting. But Mycroft was a bit too observant not to notice his lingering unease. “I’m sorry if I made it seem that way. You’re perfectly entitled to have sex with as many people as you want. As long as it wasn’t while we were dating.”

“No,” Mycroft surged forward, desperate to make him understand. “None of them were like this, like us. I didn’t love any of them. Only you.”

He didn’t understand this feeling, this sickening heat at the bottom of his stomach that felt like dread. He’d never cared, really, for the opinion of others. Nor had he ever cared much for social conventions; he knew fifty-six was a lot but he’d enjoyed all of them, or the vast majority. He’d never felt shame at indulging his secret whims from time to time, lord knew with a brother like Sherlock he was entitled to them, but at that very moment if he could have erased every previous sexual encounter to make Greg happy, he would’ve.

Greg’s right hand found his face again, cradling it. “It would okay if you had. I’ve loved people before too,” he assured in soft murmurations.

“But I haven’t,” Mycroft insisted, leaning in to rest his hands on Greg’s bare chest, clinging on. “I have never felt the way I feel about you about anyone else.”

“I love you too,” Greg promised, stretching forward to capture Mycroft’s mouth with his own, kissing him so tenderly it made the younger man’s heart physically ache. “Now let me wash your hair. You love it when I wash your hair.”

Mycroft dropped his head to Greg’s chest gratefully, heart hammering painfully in his chest. “I’m really not a slag,” he groused against the inspector’s skin and he could feel the older man laugh in the vibrations of his body.

“Yes you are,” Greg ribbed, tangling his fingers in Mycroft’s hair, petting him affectionately. “You’re my dirty little slag who can take a cock like no one else and whom I love to bits. Now hand me the shampoo.”

 

* * *

 

He was alone in the flat when his mobile rang. Greg was on a night shift and he was distracting himself by tidying up. He secretly relished cleaning; the whole process of easing things back into place soothed him like nothing else. But he set the hoover down and answered the call, walking over to couch.

“Hello?” he asked. He hadn’t recognized the number at the other end and for a minute, he didn’t recognize the voice that answered him,

“Hello, is this Mycroft?” a woman asked, northern accent thick as her voice shook.

“This is he; who is this?” he pressed.

“Sorry, this is Clara,” the woman said and Mycroft’s heart leapt to his throat. “We met a couple of weeks ago; I’m so sorry to bother you but-“

“Is Harry okay?” he demanded, not even bothering to sit down and Clara let out a shaky exhale.

“Yes, yes. She’s fine, she’s just- she told me once I should call you if she ever-“

“She’s drunk?” Mycroft checked, already running to pull of his coat, hoover forgotten on the floor.

“No no, I don’t think so,” Clara clarified nervously. “I come over pretty much every night but tonight she just holed herself up in her room, won’t come out and talk to me. I’m nervous is all. I’d take care of it myself but I don’t know what to do and you know her so much better than I do-“

“I’m on my way,” Mycroft promised, already out the door, not bothering to contradict Clara’s last statement. He wasn’t sure how true that was. Harry was one of those people who wore a lot on their sleeves; she never backed down from a straightforward question. A stranger could know Harry the way he did after just a half-hour and careful questions.

Although that wasn’t strictly true. They wouldn’t know the way Harry’s eyes crinkled at the corners when she laughed, the way her breath evened out as she slept, the way she picked her salads mercilessly apart. Then again, Clara knew all that too.

“Thank you so much,” Clara called into the phone but Mycroft was already in his car, starting the twenty minute drive.

It felt too long as he bounded up the stairs to Harry’s dorm. Clara stood in the doorway of the girl’s room, body tense. Even now she was elegant, in a long jumper and black leggings that accented thin legs, her pitch-black hair left alone in cascading waves. She visibly relaxed at the sight of Mycroft and rushed to him, already talking.

“I’m so sorry to do this to you,” she rambled as they walked back to the room. “God, I wish I could help but I was just so scared of making it worse- We never had anything like this in my family, you know and I just-“

“You did the right thing, calling me,” Mycroft said, stopping dead to reassure her. His hands, possessing minds of their own, clasped her shoulders as he made eye contact, startling and real. “I’ll take care of her. Go home Clara, and rest.”

“You’ll call me, as soon as she’s better?” Clara begged and Mycroft nodded. “Christ, I should be able to do this for her. Couples take care of each other, don’t they?”

Mycroft’s thoughts immediately flashed to Greg before coming back down. “You are taking care of her. She’s in good hands Clara, I promise you.”

She studied him a minute, eyes wide and vulnerable. “You know, before I found out you were gay I was so scared Harry would cheat on me with you,” she confessed, as though Mycroft didn’t already know that. “But that was so stupid. You’re like a brother to her, aren’t you?”

And there it was, hitting Mycroft like a bus. He treated Harry like a little sister. Granted, a little sister he talked about his sex life with, but the relationship was still there. She was like a female Sherlock, damaged and broken, only she _let_ him take care of her.

“A bit,” he admitted as though that revelation didn’t shake everything he’d thought about himself so far. “Good night Clara.” And then, without a backwards glance, he walked away from her and into Harry’s dorm.

The door to Harry’s bedroom was, in fact, shut tight and Mycroft knocked on it loudly.

“I told you to go away Clara, okay? I’ll talk to you about it tomorrow,” Harry’s voice filtered through the wood, shaky and rough, and Mycroft understood at once why Clara had sounded so scared. Harry sounded like a desperate person.

“It’s not Clara,” he announced and there was a sudden shuffle behind the door before a soft “shit.” And then the door was flying open and Harry stood in the entrance. She looked like a nightmare, ragged t-shirt and torn jeans, her blonde hair sticking up at odd angles. Her eyes were rimmed red but she was not remotely drunk.

“Mycroft, I didn’t think,” she started before collapsing in on herself and sobbing, her body shaking under the weight of them. “Fuck, My-“ she reached out blindly and rather fell into his shirt, wrapping herself around him.

Unsure _god, why was he always so hesitant?_ Mycroft wrapped his own arms around her, letting her shudder into his body. “Harry, I can’t help you if you don’t tell me what’s going on." he said gently and she pried herself away for a moment to look up at him. Her blue eyes were overflowing, like waves on a beach or like the sea before a storm.

“It’s a year. Today, it’s exactly a year,” she gasped out and Mycroft could have hit himself. Of course, today was the anniversary of her father’s death _the very first anniversary_ and he hadn’t bothered to remember. He’d known her father had died sometime in March, she’d told him that much, but she’d never mentioned a date. He should have known though, he should have made it his business to know but he didn’t and now he’s hours too late.

“I was so scared I was gonna drink. I wanted to drink so badly,” she blurted out, body shivering. “So I locked myself in my room- fuck My, I’m trying so hard, I swear-“

“You’re being so brave,” he murmured, petting her head as it fell back against his chest. “Let’s take you back to my flat, okay? There isn’t any liquor even near there.”

She nodded distantly as he found a hoody thrown over a chair and bundled her into it. It was still cold enough outside to warrant some protection, even if they were just going to the car. A thought hit him and he stepped back, tipping Harry’s head up.

“John,” he said like a statement when it was really a question. But Harry saw it for what is was and said,

“He’s by a friend. Mike Stamford or something. They’ve been friends since they were little; he’ll be okay.” She paused, collecting herself. “Mum’s home alone, but I suspect she wants that. I thought about going home to her but I can’t and I couldn’t do it and I- I didn’t _want_ to- and-“

“Hush,” he ordered soothingly as she began to hiccup into sobs. “As long as they’re safe, that’s all that matters. Let’s go.”

Harry nodded, clinging to his hand like a child as they made their way out of the mercifully empty dorm. She slid into the seat next to Mycroft without a word and was quiet the whole drive home, expect when she punctuated the silence with thick sobs she tried to muffle in the cuffs of her hoody. Mycroft parked the car and then Harry held his hand again as they stumbled up the stairs into Mycroft’s flat.

She collapsed immediately on the couch while Mycroft went to the kitchen to chop apples. He suspected she wouldn’t want to eat them, but he wasn’t going to not offer. Surely her cravings were bad right now; they might help.

He found Harry in the exact state he left her when he walked back in with a bowl of small apple slices. Mycroft sat down next to her, the sofa dipping his way, and placed the bowl on the coffee table in case she wanted. She didn’t reach out for it but instead curved into Mycroft, dropping her head into the space beneath his chin and pressing him back into the couch so she rather rested on top of him, fitting into his body like a puzzle piece.

“Do you want to talk about him?” Mycroft prompted hesitantly. Harry had told him a little about her father over the summer, but those talks had been under the covers by torchlight, deep-dark secrets never spoken of again. He didn’t know what the rules here were.

But Harry shook her head, nestling in deeper. “I kind of just want you to hold me while we watch crap telly,” she confided and Mycroft obliged her at once, holding her tightly as he flicked on the telly.

“Look at that,” he smiled slightly, squeezing her. “Eastenders is on.”

“Love this show,” Harry mumbled and they were rather perfect, just like that. Harry was a bit like an overgrown cat and Mycroft could pretend for a moment this was a regular night in for them. The fantasy was punctured every now and again by the sound Harry trying to stop her crying but Mycroft liked it all the same.

After the fifth muffling of a choked sob, Mycroft cleared his throat. “I know you said you don’t want to talk-“ he started awkwardly and Harry burst right back into tears. Oh, Mycroft was not good at this.

“Shit, I’m sorry,” she whimpered, trying to control herself. “I know you hate emotions in general; this must be hell for you.”

“It’s quite all right,” Mycroft said stiffly, because he had a feeling _I would go through hell for you_ was not the sort of thing friends said to each other.

“I just- I can’t believe it’s been a whole year,” she explained as Mycroft listened intently. “I used to wish he’d die, some nights. But when he finally did-“ she let out a choked whimper, like a kicked dog. “I hated myself for thinking that at all.”

“He was cruel to you,” Mycroft justified, rubbing her back in what he hoped was a soothing manner.

“Not always,” she reminded him. “He was a great dad till he started drinking. And even then, he had his good days. He came to my twelfth year graduation sober. We went out for Chinese after- John was only thirteen, Christ-“

She broke down again and Mycroft could only hold her. His own father had been horrendous, never present for any important moment and rather skilled at ignoring him and Sherlock until he finally left. But never had the man hit him. Mycroft had never been physically disciplined in his life, neither he nor Sherlock, and he couldn’t even begin to imagine what physical _abuse_ would feel like. For one of the few times in his life, Mycroft felt helplessly out of his depth.

“I can’t help feeling like it was my fault,” she confessed, trembling. "He was really shaken up after that night when he…stabbed John. It had been meant for me. I had gone out that night, came home a little late. But he was raging on about disrespect and rules and I snapped. Told him he was a worse alcoholic than I’d ever be and he could drown in his own vomit for all I cared.”

She drew in a shaky breath. “He just…broke a bottle over the back of a chair and lunged with it. John got in between us and well… you’ve seen the scar.”

Mycroft had, a red and ragged mess of tissue, one time when he’d caught John coming out of the shower. “You told everyone he was mugged.”

“John did,” she corrected. “He was always trying to protect Dad. And then Mum started agreeing apparently. I wasn’t at the hospital though; I stayed home with Dad.”

Mycroft felt his insides freeze. Harry had stayed home with the man who had tried to stab her minutes ago while her mother and brother left to the hospital?

Harry seemed to figure out where his thoughts were going because she cut them off. “He wasn’t dangerous after that. The blood kind of sobered him up,” she shrugged. “He felt horrible about it. John blames himself for that too, but it was my fault. If I hadn’t mouthed off-“

“Harry,” Mycroft stopped her mid-sentence. “Harry, look at me.” Hesitantly, blue eyes met his own, lower lip trembling slightly. “You were abused. You didn’t deserve any of it. And nothing that happened was even close to your fault. You do understand that, yes?” he declared, holding her tighter so she couldn’t look away.

Harry closed her eyes, uncomfortable. “I can’t _not_ blame myself, My. And I don’t think I ever will,” she admitted. “Even if it’s only subconsciously.”

Mycroft moved to say something but Harry wasn’t quite done. “The worst part is I still love him, desperately,” she disclosed. “It’d be so much easier if I could just hate him, or at least feel relieved, but all I can think of is Christmas morning when I was nine and he helped me check the chimney for footprints, or when I was six and he taught me the constellations, or when I was seven and he let me sit on his shoulders during a parade and I can’t hate him,” she nearly keened, curling in on herself.

“I love him so goddamn much.”

Mycroft only had one good memory of his father. He’d been five and a little chubby and his father had taken him to the London flat. Sherlock was left back at the country house; he was only a few weeks only and still nursing. His father had taken him to Regent’s park, perhaps even running from the new baby and his emotionally wrought wife. They’d walked around the lake, Mycroft’s small hand lost in his father’s massive one. They’d been absolutely silent, until the end, when Mycroft’s father had turned to him, crouched down and said,

“ _Never let people tell you that you are too young or too small to do something. To get power in this world, you have to seize it by the throat and throttle it until it submits.”_

Victoria had thrown a fit when Mycroft repeated those words back to her, but the day still remained amongst his favorites. And that was when it clicked.

“People don’t have to be evil to hurt you,” he whispered, voice fragile. “But that doesn’t mean you deserved that hurt.”

“I know,” Harry whispered back. But she snuggled closer and it wasn’t until they were seconds away from drifting off to the hum of the TV that Mycroft realized she’d stopped crying.

 

He woke to the sound of his cell phone alarm. It was a Sunday and he had nowhere to be but in the chaos of the night before he’d neglected to shut it off. He heard a groan and then Harry stretched out on top of him. They were still sprawled on the couch, tangled in each other, and when she spoke her voice came from somewhere near his armpit.

“We need to stop falling asleep on the couch,” she grumbled and Mycroft set about extracting himself gently.

“We made it through the night though,” he pointed out and looked down in time to catch Harry’s sleepy smile. Her eyes were still squinted shut but she blinked them open groggily before speaking.

“And no one got drunk,” she added and then rooted around in their pile of limbs until she found Mycroft’s hand and squeezed it. “Thank you,” she said sincerely. “I love you.”

He really should have been able to say it back by now. He’d said it to Greg, for god’s sakes, and Harry in many ways was much closer to him. And yet it sat like tar on his tongue, refusing to come unstuck. But Harry didn’t seem to be waiting for it, already rooting around in her pockets.

“I should call Clara,” she realized sleepily. “I was awful to her last night.”

Mycroft handed her his phone wordlessly and she took it, smiling up at him. “Thanks,” she said, already unlocking it and dialing the number. It might have seemed weird to some people that Harry knew the code to Mycroft’s mobile and Greg didn’t, but Mycroft was not most people.

He could hear the soft beginnings of a conversation as he left the living room to trudge to the bathroom. A warm shower made his muscles stop aching _you’re twenty years old, your muscles shouldn’t be aching_ and by the time he’d toweled off and dressed, there were sweet smells coming from his kitchen.

Harry stood at the stove, frying eggs, and Mycroft stood shell-shocked in the doorway for a minute until she turned around. She laughed at his face, turning back to the fire to add salt.

“It’s a thank-you present,” she explained, adjusting the flame. “And yes, I can cook. Although it’s rather limited to eggs and toast. Speaking of which, how do you like your toast?”

“Hot,” he chuckled, coming in. he started to set the table, laying out plates and forks, when Harry spoke up again.

“Clara’s coming by. I hope you don’t mind,” she tried to say flippantly, but her nerves were glaringly obvious. “She said we need to talk.”

“She’s not going to break up with you,” Mycroft reassured her. Well, there was a 16% chance she would, but that fact did not bear repeating.

“I was really vile to her last night,” Harry confessed, turning off the stove. “I was so scared of her coming in and seeing me that I… rather did the job myself.”

Mycroft didn’t say anything but instead came over and laid one hand on her shoulder. He’d been vastly unfamiliar with non-sexual touches until Harry; the Holmes were by no means touchy, but the girl had rather taught him the power of a consoling hand.

Right on cue, Harry sighed into the touch, relaxing by miles. She took a breath before standing back up straight, carrying the pan over to spook eggs into their plates. It made Mycroft feel incredibly powerful that he could change someone’s mood with just his touch. It was a power he wasn’t used to.

They were well into their eggs when the doorbell rang. Harry practically ran to the door, opening it to find Clara standing there, her natural elegant self. “Clara-“ Harry opened her mouth but the taller woman only pulled the blonde into a hug, dropping her head into the curve of her shoulder.

“I was so worried about you,” Clara let out, muffled by Harry’s shirt. “You scared me terribly.”

“I didn’t mean to,” Harry apologized softly, not quite managing to hug back.

Clara drew back suddenly. “I thought you were going to hurt yourself,” she blurted out, gripping Harry by the shoulders. “I didn’t know how to help you, I felt to useless. God Harry, promise me-“

“I won’t happen again,” Harry promised readily. “I swear it. Clara-“ she froze a beat before exhaling. “It was the anniversary of my dad’s suicide. I was scared I would end up drinking and I- I was rather horrible to you.”

Clara, to her credit, didn’t look so shell-shocked but instead powerful. Vilified almost. “You have to let me in,” she chastised gently. “Harry, you need to let me take care of you when you need it. You need to teach me how, for next time.”

Harry looked like she couldn’t quite believe her luck, or like she fancied she was dreaming. “I was so scared you were going to break up with me,” she admitted, voice no more than a breath.

Clara stared at her. “You’re an idiot, Harry,” she said simply and then raised her hands to cradle Harry’s face as she kissed her. Harry let out a small noise, somewhere between a sob and a moan and Mycroft took that as his cue to retreat back to the kitchen, busying himself with the dishes as he tried to block out the sudden thud of two bodies onto the sofa and the tiny noises that filtered down the hall. .

He was putting the last bowl away when he heard the door open and then a distinctly male voice say, “Oi! I’m so sorry… to erm interrupt. I think. Is- do either of you know where Mycroft is?”

Mycroft could barely hold back a laugh as Greg stumbled into the kitchen, a dazed look on his face. “Hello Mycroft, how are you?” he tried. He was a rumpled mess of too little sleep and too much work. It was nothing short of adorable. “Mind telling me why there are two women snogging on our couch?”

Mycroft bit the inside his cheek to hide a grin. “The blonde one is Harry Watson and the raven-haired woman is her girlfriend Clara,” he explained.

“Right,” Greg nodded, still unfocused. “Still doesn’t explain why they’re snogging on our couch.”

A soft, “Oh, Harry,” strained through and Greg winced. “Or not quite snogging, really,” he corrected himself, but Mycroft was thoroughly distracted.

“Our couch,” he repeated, watching the inspector. “You said our couch,”

“Yes, our couch,” Greg cocked his head, confused. “Unless it’s turned into something else while I was on shift.”

“No,” Mycroft tried again, striding in closer until they were only a breath apart. “You said _our_ couch.”

Greg blinked, still puzzled. “I do live here now, don’t I?”

But it was more than that. _Our couch._ A claim of ownership. And Mycroft’s heart raced.

“Yes, you do,” Mycroft agreed happily and then closed the space between them to kiss this incredible man who was somehow _his_ as they giggled around each other’s lips.

 

* * *

 

It was nearly four that afternoon when Mycroft’s phone rang again. Greg had been thoroughly shagged and then fallen straight asleep so Mycroft was alone in the flat, busying himself with trying to decipher the fourth Kryptos. He picked up his mobile and scowled at the caller ID.

“What do you do?” he asked his brother as soon as he answered.

 Sherlock’s answer was immediate as well. “Nothing, I swear,” he assured the older boy. If Mycroft didn’t know the little git better, he’d have thought the teen sounded nervous.

“Sherlock, you don’t call me unless I’ve done something to offend you, which I haven’t, or you need my help,” he sighed, his mind already running through the worst-case scenarios. He hadn’t gotten a call from Eton yet, which could mean it hadn’t been anything school-related. Or more likely, they simply hadn’t discovered it yet.

But Sherlock answer came out of absolutely nowhere. “John said I should call you.”

“Oh?” Mycroft tried to sound calm, tried to hide his surprise. Granted, he was on better terms with his little brother’s other half than he was with the melodramatic genius, but he and John were hardly bosom buddies. John certainly wasn’t the type to encourage Sherlock to start making weekly calls.

“He said I should thank you. For saving my life,” Sherlock nearly whispered and Mycroft was, for one of the few times in his life, utterly speechless. He gaped, open mouthed, for a minute before Sherlock seemed to realize he wasn’t going to get an answer and went on.

“I understand I would have died had I not been brought to hospital when I was. So thank you.” And now Mycroft was worried. Sherlock did not _thank_ people. Least of all him. He’d been saving Sherlock’s hide for years, since before the boy had reached puberty even, and had never received one word of thanks. He hadn’t exactly expected to but this? For stopping a heroin overdose?

“Sherlock-“ he tried dimly, after a minute, but Sherlock cut him off again.

“Don’t get used to it, Mycroft. I shall not be making a habit of these calls.”

The idea of that alone was laughable. Sherlock never did anything habitually, let alone talk to Mycroft. “I wouldn’t dream of it,” he assured the younger boy, biting back an incredulous laugh.

“I also believe you gave John my address. That was kind of you,” Sherlock elaborated and if Mycroft did not have rudimentary surveillance on the boy he would have started to worry there was someone with a gun to his head.

“The boy is good for you,” Mycroft offered, distinctly uncomfortable.

“Yes he is,” Sherlock agreed, pride dripping from his words. There was another awkward beat of silence before Mycroft felt compelled to try and break it.

“Sherlock-“ he started but the boy seemed to have an agenda.

“John said you love me. I told him that is ridiculous; you wouldn’t succumb to such base sentiment,” he let out all in a rush as though he’d been holding it in. likely he had, mulling over that statement in the shower, during classes, before he drifted off to sleep.

Mycroft didn’t know what to say. A part of him, a part larger than he would have cared to admit, wanted nothing more than to drive up to Eton that very moment so he could shake his younger brother and rage, “ _Of course I do, you utter imbecile!”_ But he was a Holmes and Holmeses did not conduct such public displays of affection, or even toleration, and so he stuck to his default answer.

“Utterly ridiculous,” he brushed off, playing with his trouser leg.

“Quite so,” Sherlock agreed for the second time and wasn’t that a record on its own.

“You know caring is not an advantage,” Mycroft reminded him, playing the trump card. He could remember the first time his father had taught him that phrase. He had been four and playing chess for the first time. He father beat him ruthlessly, decimating the toddler in six moves. Mycroft had been poised to burst into tears when the man had leaned his weight down onto his lap and met Mycroft’s eyes as he perched ridiculously too high in a chair too big for him.

 _“Caring is not an advantage, Mycroft_ ,” he’d divulged seriously. “ _Do try and remember that_.”

He’d beaten his Father when he was nine. They stopped playing after that.

It took him a moment to realize why Sherlock wasn’t responding and then he grew indignant.  “Sherlock, why are you laughing?” he nearly hissed as the sound the younger teen’s giggles reached him through the phone.

Sherlock seemed to struggle to speak before finally saying, “No reason at all Mycroft.” And then the line went dead in his hand and Mycroft was left staring at his mobile, feeling as though he’d rather been peeled open and exposed. 

 

 

.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Firstly, my Arabic is a little rusty. I haven't had much occasion to use it in awhile so if you find any mistakes in those three lines of dialog, let me know!
> 
> Secondly, in case you didn't realize it's mid-march for our darlings right now. And since I'm rather unstuck in time...next chapter our boys head up North to the summer house!  
> Will Mycroft and Greg's relationship survive the distance? Will Harry and Clara ever tell each other they love each other? And will John and Sherlock finally have sex? Find out on the next episode of " Angst and Sex!" 
> 
> New thirdly- a friend of mine made us art! Of Harry and Clara [ love ](http://vinylprincess.deviantart.com/art/Harry-and-Clara-418904648)
> 
> xoxo- Shay


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is shorter than usual, I apologize. I disappear for a month and then come back with a short chapter- jerk move, I know. BUT, you can now expect a new chapter next week!   
> I love you guys. Y'all still love me, right?

Mycroft graduated Cambridge on a warm day in June. Mummy came in from the country but Sherlock was still locked away in Eton. Mycroft would’ve been shocked to see him in any case.

Harry came too, with Cynthia surprisingly, and the three of them waved to him as he stepped off the stage with his diploma. Well, the Watsons waved. Mummy smiled encouragingly, which was about as emotional as the Holmses really ever got in public. It was heartwarming.

“Look at us!” Chris crowed, wrapping one arm around Mycroft’s shoulders after the ceremony. Chris had been getting more touchy since May, which Mycroft took as a good sign. They’d taken to having coffee once every two weeks or so after the initial one and Mycroft was starting to worry he might have sprouted another friend. “Free of this lovely jail.”

Mycroft laughed. “And on to frightening prospects?” he tried and Chris shoved him.

“I got a job offer,” he confided and Mycroft felt a smile bloom organically on his face. It was a strange feeling. “It’s small really, for some diplomat in Scotland, but it’s a start. You?”

“Something minor in parliament,” Mycroft shrugged. It was a rather ridiculous lie. He’d gotten the official offer from Michaels a few weeks back. It wasn’t as high up as he’d hoped it’d be, but it was a good place to start. Cushy.

Chris opened his mouth to respond, probably with a joke, when a soft cough from behind distracted them. “Mycroft,” the voice called and both boys turned around to face Mummy Holmes. She was in a pressed purple shirt and black skirt, not a black hair out of its bun. Cynthia stood slightly behind her, grinning warmly in a red jumper and black trousers. But both of them were overshadowed by Harry, who seemed to rush through the crowd to tackle him.

“I’m so proud of you!” she cried, hugging Mycroft tighter than he felt ready to bear.

“Next year will be your turn,” he encouraged her, ruffling her hair as she stepped back. It had grown longer, nearly reaching her shoulders, and she was starting to look like a grown up. It was frightening.

She blushed. “Forget me. We need to go out and eat! Or party!” she cried enthusiastically and Chris grinned at her from behind Mycroft.

“You must be Harry,” he said, offering out a hand. “Mycroft talks about you all the time.”

Harry shook it, smiling back. “And you must be the very straight Chris Melas,” she joked and Chris laughed.

“Mycroft, Cynthia and Harry asked that we dine with them when you are free,” Victoria requested primly. She looked so much like Sherlock, their mother, thin in places a woman shouldn’t be. He’d only ever seen her with her hair down once, when she’d brought Sherlock home from the hospital. It’d made her look less severe somehow, her sharp cheekbones hidden behind thick curls.

“I’ll be a minute Mummy, if you don’t mind waiting,” Mycroft nodded respectfully and Victoria inclined her head in turn.

“We will wait by the car,” she agreed and then the three women turned to walk out to the car park.

Chris whistled. “You weren’t kidding when you said she was frosty. She makes my mother look like a gushing teenager,” he tried and Mycroft let out a soft laugh. “Explains a lot though.”

Mycroft turned on him unexpectedly. “When are you leaving?” he asked and Chris shrugged.

“Next Monday I think?” he offered.

“This may be the last time we see each other then,” Mycroft added and Chris’s face fell.

“Yeah, I guess so.” He reached out and Mycroft took his hand, shaking. “I hope not. You will come visit me in Scotland, yeah?”

Mycroft laughed. “Yes,” he lied effortlessly and the two men hugged. Mycroft felt slightly powerless, like a boat adrift on a wide ocean, as they let each other go. He had his whole future mapped out in days on sheets of paper but suddenly he realized he could just _go_. Make like Chris and leave the country, get on a plane and find himself in India. He could.

But he never would and that was all there was to it. And Mycroft didn’t feel sad as he ate chicken with the Watson women and his mother and closed the door on a chapter of his life. It’d been an awful chapter in any case, regardless of its exceptions.

The future would not be anything like this, he resolved. His future bred _power_.

                                                                                …

“It’s just for two months.”

Greg glared at him from across the bedroom. “I’m going, Gregory. It’s a family tradition,” Mycroft insisted, packing at last of his bags. “If you’d like, you can call my mother and explain to her that I won’t be coming this year because the man living in my flat I’ve forgotten to tell her about refuses to let me leave.”

“Hey,” Greg stopped him, coming over to reach out with one hand. “Make that the strange man who’s been living in your flat for _four months_ won’t let you leave,” he corrected, rubbing the spot behind Mycroft’s right ear for a beat before the younger man broke and kissed him.

“You’ll visit me,” Mycroft insisted as they rolled on the bed, bags knocked to the floor. “Say you will. My brother and John will be slobbering all over each other; they won’t even notice you’re there.”

Greg bit his neck and Mycroft arched up underneath him, making both men groan. “Yeah, yeah, course I will,” he promised. “The flat will be dismal without you.”

Mycroft arched one eyebrow. “Dismal? Your vocabulary _is_ improving, Gregory.”

Greg bit him harder. “Shut up and let me fuck you,” he grunted and that rather settled it.

 

* * *

 

Sherlock slouched the whole car ride up to the country house, texting furiously. Mummy pointedly ignored them both, reviewing stocks and marketing plans, and Mycroft held the silence as a token. When the car pulled up outside the house, Sherlock practically bounded out and through the front door held open by a maid.

“Did you fix his room yet?” he yelled over his shoulder and Mycroft followed behind, moving to carry the luggage. “Don’t give him the guest sheets; he needs nice sheets!”

Mummy snickered, and Mycroft turned around, shocked. His mother actually flushed slightly around the ears but held his gaze with her own steely eyes. “I’ve simply never seen him like this, there’s no need to stare,” she brushed off, gliding inside. Mycroft followed her, still utterly bemused.

Sherlock’s voice rang down from the rafters. “The purple duvet? Are you actually kidding me?” and Mycrfot did his best to ignore him as he left his mother’s luggage in the front parlor to be taken care of. He’d take it to her room, but then again he hadn’t stepped foot in his mother’s bedroom in twelve years. It felt sacrilegious somehow. His own luggage he carried up the flight of stairs and into his room.

His mother hadn’t given him and Harry connecting rooms like she had for the younger boys, probably because she’d been hesitant about giving a boy and girl unrestricted access to each other’s rooms. That was the highest irony, wasn’t it, that he and Harry shouldn’t have connecting rooms when they were least likely people in the house to shag each other but misters PDA John and Sherlock should. Instead, Harry’s designated room was across the hall.

He checked on it anyway. It was a carbon copy of his own room- giant bed in the middle with a walk-in closet and a giant bay window, only hers opened up to the gardens rather than to the forest as his did. Both vast and impersonal. Classic Holmes style.

He did his best to unpack, nervous butterflies in his stomach. The Watsons were arriving tomorrow, and while he’d seen Harry every week in their absence, it wasn’t the same as living together again. And living with his mother was always hellish. In the end, he gave up and skipped dinner, walking out to the edge of the property line by the highway.

The sun was setting by the time he got back and that was fine. He needed an excuse to go to bed anyway. Greg had texted him- sexted him really- and it wasn’t long before Mycroft was drifting off.

 

He was rudely awakened by the sound of his brother’s voice echoing in the giant house.

“Wake up you fat, lazy sod! They’ll be here in three hours!” Sherlock shouted outside his door and Mycroft groaned, getting up. Just what he needed to start the day. He showered and dressed in his vacation wardrobe- dress shirt and slacks minus the jacket- and headed downstairs to eat.

Mrs. Newman, the cook, was already busy with eggs and Sherlock was flitting around the kitchen, too nervous to sit and eat. Mummy was perched daintily on a stool by the kitchen table, cracking open a soft-boiled egg with a spoon, the _Times_ open in front of her.

“For heaven’s sake Sherlock, sit down. You’re making me nauseous,” she ordered and her youngest son sat down immediately, foot jiggling impatiently. “Morning Mycroft.”

“Good morning Mummy,” he acknowledged and sat down in time for Mrs. Newman to set a plate of eggs Benedict in front of him, his childhood favorite. He smiled fondly at her and then there was perfect silence in kitchen as Mummy turned a page, Mycroft ate and Sherlock stared at his toast, not even bothering to try.

The sound of tires on gravel startled them all and Sherlock was running outside like a gunshot. Mummy and Mycroft stood, following more sedately behind, and were just in time to stand neatly outside the house as the gray Chevy pulled up. Cynthia was the first out, coming over to Victoria’s welcoming arms. They were just politely kissing each other’s cheeks as John stepped out and was immediately tackled by Sherlock, slamming him to the ground.

His mother was laughing but Mycroft was already moving to help Harry out of the car. She grinned at him in a belly-baring tee-shirt and white shorts. “Wotcher, Mycroft. Long time no see.”

He grinned back. “Let’s get you settled,” he offered and she moved to get her luggage, carrying it up the steps behind a chatty John and Sherlock who were leaning into each other and practically bursting with sexual tension. Mycroft was glad to separate from them, heading further down the hall to his and Harry’s rooms. There, he sat on her bed listening to her tell him all about Clara’s plans to visit on the weekend as she unpacked. This was a way to start a summer.

Dinner was a loud affair, especially for the Holmes household. Mycroft was deep in conversation with Harry as Victoria interrogated her younger brother on the other side of the table. Mycroft was just opening his mouth to tell her about Greg’s goodbye “present” when they were startled by the sound of Victoria asking,

“Harry, how are you?”

Harry looked up and answered, “Very well ma’am, thank you.”

“You are in Uni, yes?” Victoria asked.

“Last year,” Harry smiled. She was never nervous talking to the Holmes matriarch, despite the polite tones she always used.

“Ah yes, just a year younger than my Mycroft,” Victoria nodded, as though she’d forgoten. She was a spectacular actress when she wanted to be. “What are your plans for after Uni? Mycroft has been offered a very prestigious position in the British government you know.”

Harry nodded but Cynthia’s eyes widened. “How marvelous Mycroft! And so young too.”

Mycroft smiled kindly back, laughing internally. No one, except perhaps Sherlock who might have deduced it, had any idea how “prestigious” the position actually was. He wasn’t such a bad actor himself.

 “Is there a woman in your life Mycroft?” Cynthia asked and Mycroft’s hands clenched impulsively under the table. He could feel Harry tense next to him but he was spared the horror of answering by his mother.

“Not yet, but there’s no doubt my Mycroft will marry a lovely woman and continue the Holmes family, isn’t that so?” Victoria smiled and Mycroft smiled back, the picture of the perfect son. He wasn’t sure if it was a threat, a warning or both. With Victoria, chances were it was both.

“I should be so lucky Mummy,” he replied carefully through a grin and he could actually feel Harry's eyes boring holes into the side of his face. It was an uncomfortable feeling.

“Well, at least two of our boys are taken care of,” Cynthia smiled down the table at John and Sherlock and the two teens blushed in unison. It was nauseating.

“Tea?” Victoria asked in lieu of an answer and that was the end of that. Mycroft knew she hated to publically acknowledge her son’s blatant homosexuality. He hadn’t admitted it publically yet, and until he did Mycroft was sure his mother would go on insisting to herself they were just very close friends.

He should have known that was nowhere near the end of the conversation though as Harry tugged him into her room after dinner and sat him down on her bed.

“What the hell was that?” she demanded, laying into him, and Mycroft shrunk back.

“What was what?” he tried and she glared at him.

“Don’t play dumb with me, Mycroft,” she hissed. “That ‘I should be so lucky’ crap out there. She literally handed you a coming out card on a silver platter and you threw it out!”

“Harry,” Mycroft coaxed her into sitting down across from him on the bed, her legs crossing underneath her automatically. “It wasn’t like that.”

“No, that’s exactly what it was,” Harry insisted and damn her, she was right.  “You keep denying it and denying it and after everything you said to me last year Mycroft! You held my hand while I came out, why can’t you do it too?” Harry’s voice trembled.

“It’s different for me Harry, you have to understand,” Mycroft pleaded, reaching over to take her hands.

“You told me there was no point in being honest with myself if it made me ashamed of who I was,” Harry cut him off, but she squeezed his hands back. “What are you going to do Mycroft, when she starts introducing you to women? Are you just going to tell Greg, ‘sorry love, can’t fuck you tonight, my mummy set me up on a blind date with some politician’s daughter from Sweden?’” she practically yelled.

“Harry please-“ Mycroft murmured in an effort to get her to lower her voice. He thought he heard a rustle from outside the door, but then that was it. “I can’t, okay. I can’t do it right now.”

“Why the hell not?” Harry demanded and he exploded.

“Because she’s barely okay with Sherlock right now and if I come out she’ll-“ he gasped, suddenly needing air desperately. “She’ll he harder on him and John. He needs John, Harry. I can’t take that away from him.”

Harry paled and for a minute he was scared he’d said the wrong thing. Then suddenly Harry was reaching across the divide between them and hugging him tightly, wrapping him in her arms. “Oh Mycroft,” she whispered and Mycroft wanted to fall apart in her arms. He didn’t.

“You can’t keep putting Sherlock’s life above your own,” she chided gently, pulling back and smoothing down his hair with her warm fingers. “You are really not his father.”

“I’m the closest he has to one,” he reminded her, submitting to the petting. He would never admit, but it _was_ rather nice, like a warm bath.

She sighed, her whole body radiating relaxed tension. “You will come out to her though. Promise me you will. Your happiness is just as important as Sherlock’s.”

He didn’t want to promise. He knew that however effortlessly he lied to others, promises to Harry were taken seriously. But the petite blonde was glaring at him and so he nodded. “I promise,” he acquiesced and she nodded back.

“Good,” she agreed and then smiled hesitantly. “Do you wanna watch something?”

And so that was how he spent his first night back in the country, snuggled up next to Harry in her bed, watching a terrible film on her laptop. This, he could live with. 


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I said you don't have to read "Love Me with the Lights Off" to get this, and you don't, but there are certain scenes I'm shortening or leaving out entirely because they're not really the focus of this story. So if you want the fuller picture, maybe read that too. Anyway, I promised you a longer chapter this week and I deliver!

Mycroft wasn’t sure why, but Sherlock had become obsessed with the idea of camping. Whether the boy had genuinely developed a love for the outdoors, or he’d simply realized that outside was where he had the greatest chance of shagging the older teen without anyone hearing was not really Mycroft’s issue.

What was Mycroft’s issue was that the boys weren’t getting out of the house fast enough. By the time the two teens were stuffed in a car and halfway to hell, his mother and Cynthia on the way to their favorite spa in town, and Harry driven back into London to see Clara, he had three minutes to shower before Greg arrived.

As it was, he ran downstairs to open the front door with his hair still wet and sticking to his forehead in loose curls, sending rivulets down his back and soaking his shirt. Greg looked incredibly uncomfortable on the Holmes porch but Mycroft didn’t give him a chance to find his sea legs. Instead, he wrapped his fingers around the inspector’s wrist and tugged him inside, shutting the door behind him.

“Shhhh,” he cautioned, still holding Greg’s arm as he led him up the stairs. “No one’s home but the maids gossip sometimes. Better that they don’t see you.”

“Are we actually going to defile your childhood bed?” Greg teased, trying to hide the uneasy note in his voice, and Mycroft took pity on him. They crossed right to the genius’s bedroom and Mycroft locked the wooden door. Greg was right there behind him when he turned around and Mycroft let himself soak in the man, dressed down in dark jeans and a green shirt. And then he kissed him.

The kiss turned filthy in less than three minutes, as all their kisses were wont to do. Greg was already popping open the buttons on Mycroft’s trousers as the younger man tried to maneuver them to the bed. Greg’s knees hit the edge of the mattress and Mycroft got to relish his few seconds on top before Greg hooked his ankle around Mycroft’s and flipped them, the friction sending a jolt down both of their spines.

“The flat is so lonely without you- fuck!” Greg hissed and Mycroft tangled his fingers in the older man’s hair and tugged him down to snog him senseless. He wasn’t sure how to even respond to that, so he made do with clawing viciously at Greg’s shirt, struggling to pull it off without releasing his mouth from Greg’s.

“Let me just-“ Greg tried and, sitting up, he stripped his shirt in one smooth movement before dropping back down and working on Mycroft’s. Mycroft meantime was struggling out of his own trousers and for a minute both men were just a mess of tangled clothes before they reconnected and _god_ this was so much better, all smooth skin and someone let out an obscene moan. Mycroft couldn’t be sure it wasn’t him.

“Do you-?” Greg prompted, his fingers skittering over Mycroft’s skin and he let out a damp groan.

“Top drawer,” he urged, surging up as Greg snapped his hips teasingly before crawling across the bed to open Mycroft’s top drawer. He rooted around in the nightstand for a minute before turning back.

“I can’t find anything,” he admitted and then Mycroft was crawling forward to look himself. The box of condoms and lube he’d carefully hidden and snuck into the country house like contraband were gone.

“Shit,” Mycroft cursed and Greg let his head fall back against the pillows in frustration. “I don’t know- one of the maids must have moved it-“

“Forget it, doesn’t matter,” Greg promised, reaching up to cradle Mycroft’s head and drawing him back in hurriedly. “We don’t have to fuck. You can just suck me off, yeah? We haven’t done blow jobs in ages.”

Wordlessly, Mycroft nodded before crawling back down Greg’s spread-out body, licking the insides of the older man’s thighs slowly. It was only when he could feel Greg above him starting to tremble that he finally started to suck in earnest, wrapping his tongue around the head before slowly enveloping Greg in wet heat, skimming his teeth along the underside.

“Fuck, god your mouth is sin,” Greg encouraged, tugging gently at Mycroft’s hair and trying not to thrust. It was a losing battle. By the time the older man finally came, Mycroft’s jaw was starting to ache and he’d resorted to using his hands for the bits he couldn’t reach. Greg sighed into the mattress, his limbs jelly.

“I’m dead love, can you just-“ he gestured and Mycroft rocked against the offered leg. He was so close anyway, Greg never managed to stay very silent during his blow jobs, and before long they were just two sweaty, sticky collages of limbs. It was hardly the best orgasm of Mycroft’s life but one couldn’t expect mind-blowing shags every single time. This was normal…he guessed. He’d never really stayed with anyone this long before to test that theory out.

Later, it might have been minutes or hours, Greg was carding his fingers through Mycroft’s curls as they lay on his chest. “How long do we have?” he asked and Mycroft paused to do the calculations in his head.

“Another three hours maybe,” he guessed, that was if his mother stopped for coffee. But she always did.

“Can we waste one of them on showering?” Greg begged and Mycroft looked up at him through heavy-lidded eyes.

“How about,” he started, sitting up and moving to straddle Greg’s waist, rocking forward so slowly it wasn’t even teasing, “we finish getting dirty and then we wash.”

Greg’s eyes widened. “Again?” he groaned, even as his hands came up naturally to settle on Mycroft’s hips and dig in.

The younger man laughed, rolling against him in a move that had them both arching impossibly closer. “I’m twenty-one,” he teased. “I could ride you all night if I wanted to, you old man.”

Greg actually growled aloud. “Old man? I’ll show you an old man,” he bit back and for the second time that afternoon, Mycroft found himself slammed down on his back, laughing helplessly into Greg’s open mouth as the inspector tickled his sides even as he ground their hips together. It felt like something out of a dream, with the sun shining in through the open window and the room silent save for their heavy breathing and repressed laughs.

“I love you,” Mycroft blinked, unbelievably vulnerable; even as Greg reached down to wrap a hand around the pair of them.

Greg kissed his nose and fuck him if that wasn’t the most erotic thing they’d ever done. “I love you too,” he promised back and Mycroft wrapped his own, smaller hand around Greg’s.

By the time they’d finished and showered and _showered_ , the sun hovered on the edge of setting and Mycroft helped Greg collect his clothes from the various surfaces of his bedroom. He couldn’t quite keep his hands off the inspector and _this_ was why emotions were dangerous. He felt tethered to Greg in a way that frightened him, made him want to scratch under his skin and rip his veins out- just to make it stop.

“I won’t be able to see you next week,” Greg confessed, letting Mycroft button his shirt for him like a mother hen. “I have the kids and I’m behind on paperwork.”

“So the week after then,” Mycroft offered, finishing the top button. “We can meet in town and walk around, change of pace.”

Greg nodded, taking Mycroft’s hands off his chest and wrapping them in his own, interlocking fingers. “You’ll text me. And call me. You do know your phone makes calls, yes?”

Mycroft kissed him and then kissed him and then _kissed_ him and then they had to go downstairs before they tried for round four. He watched Greg leave from the porch, waving slightly as he drove away. He watched the car lights fade down the road before he lost sight of them and then finally headed inside, a phantom pain in his chest.

 

* * *

 

By the time the boys came home, he was going crazy. So Harry, perfect Harry who knew his moods better than he did sometimes, flounced into his room the morning after the boys got back from camping and announced they were going into town.

“I need to shop,” she decided, ruffling her hair. It was growing in nicely, almost past her chin, and she was considering cutting it again. Mycroft would have to convince her not to. “Besides, Clara’s in town and I want us to all have lunch again. That first one was fun.”

“Why are you so determined to turn Clara and I into bosom buddies?” Mycroft sighed, looking up from his writings.

“Bosom? Oh Mycroft, you’re not that fat!” Harry insisted and he glared at her until she dissolved into giggles. “Look, you’re two of the people I love most in the world, save John and my mom. And I like all the people I love to be friends.”

“You like a lot of things that aren’t good for you,” he grumbled but he stood anyway and Harry cheered like she hadn’t known he was going to do whatever she asked. Brat.

Sherlock and John were in den as they left. John didn’t so much as look up from his book as they passed but Sherlock did, a cool, calculating gaze sweeping over the two of them. “Give my regards to Clara,” he swanned and Harry gaped at him.

“How did he-“ she asked, turning on Mycroft and he let out an almighty sigh.

“Your clothes, your hair, my jacket, your mobile, my car keys. Now can we go?” he explained and with that he pushed them out of the house and into the fresh July air. The weather was being unusually kind to them; he’d never seen so many days go by without rain in his life. Harry might have had a point when she’d said it ought not be wasted.

The drive into town was short and they parked in a car park near a small café. Harry had immediately stripped herself of her short jacket and held it in her arms as they walked through the café door, a bit out of place in her usual shorts and thin tee-shirt. They took a table by the window, as close to “home” as they could manage, and were just leafing through the menus when the door opened for Clara.

The woman was flawless as per her usual; black curls swept up into an elegant knot and purple skinny jeans that tapered into heeled ankle boots that clicked on the tiled floor. Harry stood and ran to her and weren’t they a mixed-matched couple, Harry a good 15 centimeters shorter than her in sneakers that had come untied. But they hugged like friends and kissed quickly like practiced lovers and it made the corners of Mycroft’s mouth twitch up in spite of himself.

“Mycroft,” Clara greeted him warmly and he nodded in her direction as she sat across from him, her hand linked with Harry’s beneath the table. “How wonderful to see you.”

“It’s a pleasure seeing you,” he said honestly. Any sighting of her was a pleasure after the last time he’d really seen her, begging him to take care of a distraught Harry.

“Clara, what are you having?” Harry asked, turning to her partner easily, with the fluidity of comfort. “Because I demand you get the tortellini.”

“Harry, you’re being absurd,” Clara laughed effortlessly, a chime of a noise.

“Come on Clare-bear, eat your pastas,” she goaded. “They’re good for you.”

“Oh are they?” Clara asked incredulously, tilting her head as her eyebrows raised. “That’s your professional medical opinion now, is it?”

“Yes ma’am, the love doctor is at your service,” Harry tipped her head, winked audaciously. “And he demands you give us something to hold onto when we-“

“Child,” Clara snorted.

“Old maid.”

“Why? Because old maids are partial to salads?”

“So you’re an expert on old maids now? Because here I thought you wanted to-”

“Both of you,” Mycroft barked and they froze, both mid-insult. “Shall we order?”

Harry glanced at her counterpart nervously and then the two women descended into horrifically childish giggles. Mycroft gave up internally. That was what worked between the two very different women, he guessed. Childish banter and barely hidden innuendos.

Lunch itself was lovely. Harry and Clara snipped at each other and both made a valiant effort to make sure he didn’t feel like he was “third-wheeling” to use a Harry phrase. He didn’t mind that he was. It wasn’t all that different from his usual alone, and yet it was leagues away. By the time desert came, he felt like smiling.

“What are you doing for the summer Clara?” Mycroft asked casually over cheesecake- damn Harry to hell.

“Interning at this law firm in Norfolk,” she told him, smiling over her own strawberries. “Which reminds me, I better get going soon. I’m supposed to help with paperwork tonight.”

“Baby no,” Harry moaned, wrapping her arms around Clara’s waist. “Must you leave me?”

“Some of us have jobs, Harry,” Clara teased, pushing her but not detaching her, as her own left hand found its ways into the blonde’s curls. “Something that you should have, too.”

“Shhhhh, if we don’t talk about it then it doesn’t exist,” Harry demanded, closing her eyes and Clara chuckled indulgently.

“How on Earth do you put up with her?” she teased Mycroft and he used his most “human” smile.

“I have been nominated for sainthood once or twice,” he tried and she laughed in confirmation that he’d done well.

Harry pouted. “I did not get you together so you could gang up on me,” she grouched and Clara kissed her forehead.

“What? Gang up on you? Never,” she promised, touching noses and god he could not watch this. Sensing his discomfort, Harry stood and called over a waiter. They settled the bill and the girls kept the cuddling to a minimum and then came the goodbyes in the car park.

“I’ll see you Tuesday,” Clara promised, kissing Harry quickly on the mouth, and Mycroft remembered vividly a Harry of only a few months ago who based her relationships on nothing but the physical. This in front of him was a very different Harry, content with wonderful conversation and a few kisses.

“Call me when you finish tonight, even if it’s late,” Harry urged and Clara nodded. The older beauty turned to Mycroft and they shook hands warmly.

“Always a pleasure,” Clara insisted and he smiled back. With one more kiss to Harry, she ducked insider her car, a sleek black thing that fit her personality perfectly. Mycroft and Harry got into their own and Mycroft felt a little evil pulling away, watching Harry’s face fall before she made an effort to pick it up.

The car ride was silent, a companionable silence of two people who appreciated savoring good conversations. But as they came closer to the house, Harry opened her mouth so suddenly Mycroft almost missed it.

“She’s the one, Mycroft. Don’t tell me I’m being ridiculous-“ she cut him off even before he opened his mouth. “She is. I’m going to marry her.”

She looked over at his forced impassive face and laughed. “Not now, you idiot. But one day. I feel it.” she sighed and sat back in her chair. “There. You can tell me I’m ridiculous now.”

“I believe you,” Mycroft said softly and Harry stared at him in shock. “Sentiment has never been my area. I bow here to your expertise. If you say you will, I believe you.”

Harry blinked at him and Mycroft tried not to focus on her as he pulled into the garage. After he’d parked though, she took his hand in hers and squeezed.

“Thank you,” she murmured and that was all it took.

They walked in through the front door. Harry hurried upstairs to change but Mycroft paused as he drew closer to the kitchen. There were giggles from inside and as he passed by the open doorway, he found his little brother and John sitting at the kitchen table, laughing at each other.

They looked up as he stood in the doorway, his mind working a million miles per hour. They were wet, they’d showered recently, but it was the middle of the day and they’d both woken up at eight. They didn’t smell of the lake so that meant they’d gotten up to something that made them sweaty enough to change. And then he noticed the hickey on Sherlock’s neck, the way he perched on the chair- still a bit uncomfortable, and they tightly interlocked fingers on the table.

Ah. _Oh_. His brother…was no longer the prim virgin he’d left mere hours ago. And then it all came together. “ So that’s where my stuff went,” he muttered, his mind helpfully supplying him with the image of his little brother sneaking into his room and stealing sex supplies from his bedside drawer weeks ago in preparation for a night he couldn’t have even been sure was coming.

He got to relish the look of pure horror on both teen’s faces before he stalked off upstairs. He’d have to collect his stuff from Sherlock’s room. Although- they’d had to have touched it during the act which meant there’d be clues he wouldn’t help but deduce and-. No, he decided as he shuddered, better to simply buy new.

 

* * *

 

“Am I coming up?” Greg asked over the phone.

Mycroft growled from the hall. “No. My brother is being insufferable and refuses to leave. I’ll meet you in town.”

“We can’t sneak around them?” Greg goaded and Mycroft could tell he was a little desperate for a bed.

“No,” he huffed as he wondered internally what made his relationship so different than Harry’s, where sex wasn’t always the endgame. “They’re hanging upside down in the tree on the front lawn. Like apes,” he added, looking out the curtained window at the ridiculous teens. John sat back against the trunk as Sherlock swung upside down, impervious to the laws of gravity. Ridiculous.

Greg laughed. “Fine. We can eat something and walk around a bit, yeah?”

“Perfect,” Mycroft agreed before hanging up and walking upstairs to get ready.

No one noticed as he took the car out and he drove into town in radio silence. Harry had taken the day to have a lie-in and he hadn’t felt like disturbing her just to have someone to call in the car. He wasn’t sure what they planned on doing in town, but at least they’d get to see each other. They hadn’t talked much since Greg had come over; he’d been too busy with the kids.

Mycroft found him waiting outside one of the smaller shops looking healthier than he’d ever seen the inspector. Greg’s face lit up as he approached and he walked over and hugged Mycroft.

This. This was different- this touching right out in the open. And they could here; there was no one around for miles who knew them for what they were. Greg kissed him quickly on the mouth, not more than a peck, but there was fresh air and sunshine all around them and it felt like their first true kiss.

“I like this,” Mycroft found himself confessing before he’d realized he’d done it. But Greg smiled back.

“Me too. None of that cloak and dagger shit we play in London,” he agreed and, right then, they linked hands. It was exhilarating.

  _I just want to walk around in public and let strangers see us holding hands_ was what he wanted to say but that would definitely be too…emotional. So instead he was quiet as they walked through town looking for somewhere to eat. They found a little café down an alley, markedly similar to the own he’d dined in with Harry, and sat down to order.

“How are the girls?” Mycroft asked as they waited for their food to come, partly because he knew he had to.

Greg’s face fell a little. “Not amazing. They’re starting to figure out what’s going on- separation is a little too big for them to grasp but they’re catching on.”

Mycroft knew he wasn’t supposed to feel elated at the permanent way Greg said ‘separation.’ That was assuredly “not good.” But he did anyway. “You look healthier though,” he pointed out as a waiter set down their food.

“Thank you,” Greg smiled at the woman and then turned back to Mycroft. “Do I? Well things are a little better. Caroline and I are finally talking.”

Mycroft must have made a face because Greg chuckled. “Don’t look at me like that. I know you get jealous when I'm within two meters of her but she is the mother of my children. It’s good we’re talking,” he eased, rubbing Mycroft’s hand with his thumb. “She’s actually being rather reasonable.”

“Oh?” Mycroft asked, eyebrows raised in advance.

Greg glared at him good-naturedly. “Yes she is. She’s not a dragon, My. I did marry her after all. You’ve just seen her at her worst. Normally she’s incredibly sweet.”

Mycroft did not like the sound of this. “So you had dinner with her two nights ago?” he pushed and Greg opened his mouth to respond before stopping.

“I didn’t say that,” he blinked. “How’d you know?”

Mycroft sighed. “You’ve spoken to her recently- face to face so it must have been at a meal. Why a meal? Because that’s your personality, you’re a gentleman in that way and you would have wanted to reward her for this step. It was two nights ago, not last night or you would still smell faintly of the cologne you wear when you eat out so two nights ago. Why not earlier? Because it’s still fresh in your mind; I bet you could repeat whole sections of conversation verbatim.”

Greg whistled. “You are nothing short of genius,” he crowed and Mycroft smiled slightly. _I bet Caroline can’t do that_ he thought vindictively before he stopped himself. He was turning into a woman, or worse an ordinary person.

“Yeah we had dinner two nights ago, that was the only night the babysitter was available,” he acquiesced and Mycroft tried to keep his bristles down. “She’s a lot calmer. We both just want what’s best for the girls- we’re working out a custody schedule. Speaking of which, she really wants to talk with you.”

Mycroft stared, waiting for the joke, but when none came he laughed out loud. “Talk? The woman who called me a home-wrecking whore wants to _talk_ to me?” he asked incredulously.

Greg crossed his arms and this was going all wrong. “She was angry, Mycroft. She went mama bear- she was trying to protect the girls. She gets it now. Please, she’s important to me. And she will always be a part of our lives; it’s best you two come to terms with each other. She’s making an effort, My.”

“Why are you suddenly on her side?” Mycroft growled, regretting it the minute it came out of his mouth. Too impulsive, he was being too impulsive.

“There are no sides here,” Greg nearly shouted and he took a deep breath as the café stared at them. “There are only two important people here and those are my daughters. They come first in this, Mycroft. You have to understand that.”

Mycroft did _not_ understand that. He didn’t get children, didn’t understand what they wanted or why anyone would love a creature that screamed and cried and couldn’t do a thing for itself. And he certainly didn’t get why those brats would be a reason why he’d have to sit down and play nice with the woman who’d called him a fucktoy.

But he nodded because he understood enough to know that was the right thing to do. “Of course,” he agreed, mere lip service, and Greg was too good of an inspector to buy it. He sighed, leaning back in his chair, and leveled his gaze at Mycroft.

“You just haven’t met them yet,” Greg excused for him. “That little run-in at McDonalds doesn’t count. They’re delicious and perfect and you’ll love them, trust me.”

Could he do that? Could he play…stepfather? to those tiny human beings? He’d barely formed an impression of them when they’d met other than blinding jealousy. But damn it, for Greg he’d try. That’s how he knew how far gone he was.

“When does the divorce go through?” he asked instead because he wasn’t sure what else to say.

It was Greg’s turn to look shifty. “We haven’t filed yet,” he admitted and Mycroft felt a bit sick. “It’s a long process full of lawyers and social workers and we want to prepare the girls first,” he explained quickly, sitting up. “Caroline and I planned to meet all next week to talk about it. But it won’t be long.”

This conversation was unpleasant and awful and he hadn’t waited nearly two weeks to see Gregory only to have _this_. “Let’s walk around a bit, I’m a little restless,” he asked, changing the subject.

Greg looked at his own empty plate and then at Mycroft’s practically untouched one. “You haven’t eaten,” he reminded him softly.

“I’ve had an upset stomach lately, best not to risk too much,” Mycroft lied easily and Greg shot him a concerned look before flagging down a waitress to pay.

They left the café hand in hand and that eased Mycroft a little. He breathed better as the wandered around the small town, ducking into shops at random and talking easily about less important things. At one point Mycroft couldn’t shake the feeling that they were being watched but he put it aside. There was little chance they were. Who here would care about them?

The sun was starting to go down as they walked back to their respective cars. “I’ll see you next week,” Greg promised, kissing Mycroft quickly and then letting his hands linger. “See if you can get the boys out and maybe we’ll just stay in the house.”

Mycroft grinned lazily, kissing him back. “Leave it to me,” he eased silkily and then frowned. “You should leave now though, before traffic gets bad on the M4.”

“Yes mother,” Greg laughed but it didn’t feel like a joke. “I’ll call you, alright?”

Mycroft nodded and they parted ways after a few last kisses. And yet, as he drove home in that same, oppressive silence, he couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong.

 

* * *

 

The boys were hung-over.  They must’ve gone out the night before and gotten drunk and then…given each other handjobs in the back of a car if the slight twinge in John’s left wrist was anything to go by. Disgusting.

The first clink of his spoon against his plate at breakfast had been an accident, but the resulting shiver from his little brother as he burrowed deeper into his dressing gown was too perfect to pass up. So Mycroft spent most of breakfast knocking the glass cutlery into each other.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” he grinned as he let his knife hit the glass for the fourth time. “I’m so clumsy today.”

“Burn in hell, Mycroft,” Sherlock hissed, and Mycroft felt oddly proud of himself. He hadn’t done much to annoy his demon brother this week- he could feel himself slipping.

“Children!” Harry’s mother called from the head of the table and Mycroft found himself turning to watch the petite blonde. “Vivi and I had the most fantastic idea!” Mycroft almost bristled at the moniker himself. That woman had to be the only person in history who would dare to call the ice queen Victoria Holmes “Vivi,” like a child.

“Oh, don’t include me in this, Cynthia,” his own mother groaned but the smile she shot at Cynthia raised Mycroft’s hackles. He wasn’t sure what was going on between the two women. It would take him no more than six minutes to deduce it but he and Sherlock had both silently agreed to never deduce their mother. It made for too-weird breakfasts.

“We want to go to a waterpark!” Cynthia finished excitedly and Mycroft blinked.

The Watsons were already prattling on excitedly and Harry looked like she was about to burst into sunbeams. Mycroft had never been to a waterpark before and was quite sure he could have spent his whole life never stepping foot in one. The universe had other plans.

 “Do you even own a swimming costume Mycroft?” Sherlock baited, drawing both of them back into their own world, and Mycroft bristled.

“Of course,” he hissed at his younger brother and Sherlock raised one eyebrow.

“Really? I didn’t know they made whale sizes,” he teased and Victoria shot them both withering looks.

“Stop it, both of you,” she ordered Mycroft looked down at his own lap, properly shamed. “We are going and that is final.”

“Look, now you’ve upset Mummy,” he whispered at his brother and Sherlock gaped at him.

“I upset her? Me?”  he hissed back and John pulled him away.

“Let it go,” he urged and Sherlock did, pausing to stick his tongue out at Mycroft who gave him the most dignified two-finger salute he could manage before they headed upstairs, urged on by Mrs. Watson’s rally cry.

Harry helped him pack. “I really can’t believe you’ve never gone to a water park before,” she gossiped from the floor in front of his closet, stuffing clothes into a bag.

“It’s rather indecent to bathe in public company, is it not?” he asked from his seat on his bed, watching her incredulously.

“Next you’ll tell me you never went to a beach,” she laughed and Mycroft bit his tongue to keep from confirming that. He’d seen the sea, obviously, but he hadn’t done what Harry was wordlessly implying he’d done, which was strip down to trunks and frolic on the sand in front of strangers. That was most assuredly not on.

They spent the car ride talking in whispers about Gregory. Harry was, surprisingly, on his side about the whole Caroline reconnection.

“It’s weird,” she agreed, both of them trying to ignore their little brothers falling all over each other across the aisle. “I know he needs to be in contact with her cause of the kids but he’s being a bit too understanding. The woman cheated on him.”

“He thinks I’m being unreasonable,” he griped and they stepped back mentally to stare at himself. Was he actually sitting in a car gossiping about his love life with a perfectly average girl? Was this actually his life now?

“Unreasonable my ass,” she encouraged and yes, this was definitely his life now. “If Clara ever pulled that with one of her exs, I would stage a revolution.”

Oddly enough, that made the weight that had been sitting on his shoulders lighten a bit. He felt markedly lighter the whole day really, finding unexpected pleasure in watching Harry run around a “river” and slide down water-slides, even if he took no part in the insanity himself. There were certain things that were just too below his dignity. Although he rather appreciated the lazy river- very little legwork.

He and Harry took turns showering back at the hotel and he smiled as he settled down in the room they were both sharing. For a horrific moment, Mummy had arranged for him and Sherlock to share but luckily John hadn’t objected to switching rooms behind their mother’s backs. Harry came out of the bathroom around ten in sweatpants with a towel around her head.

“Did you hear something?” she asked as she toweled off and Mycroft looked up from his novel.

“No, I hadn’t been paying attention,” he confessed and then cocked one ear. A sudden thudding sound from the next room caught his attention and he turned to Harry.

“That’s John and Sherlock’s room,” he noted, growing worried. Had someone fallen? Or worse, he felt his heart seize in his throat, could Moriarty be back in all their lives?

Harry looked just as horrified, but for very different reasons. “Oh god no,” she murmured and he opened his mouth to ask before he heard it.

“Oh fuck, John!” someone was moaning and oh god, that was definitely his little brother. Which meant the thudding was-

He met Harry’s eye and the two of them shuddered simultaneously at the answering groan and the ever-escalating moans followed by cries of “Yes, fuck me harder. Oh god, John!”

“Remarkable stamina, your brother,” Mycroft remarked, his voice sounding dead to his own ears and Harry quaked.

“I think I’m going to be sick,” she groaned and was answered by the thudding of what could only be a headboard against the neighboring wall.

Mycroft held back a shiver. “Maybe switching rooms was not the most brilliant of our ideas,” he acknowledged and good god, he knew his brother was a whiner but this was ridiculous. He understood not everyone preferred the silent sex that comforted him, but there were limits to how much moaning someone could pull off before the whole thing sounded fake.

“On the other hand,” Harry offered as she sat down next to Mycroft on his bed as they tried to ignore the cries of ecstasy from the next room, “I’m a bit proud of him. Sounds like sex god runs in the family.”

“Please do shut up,” Mycroft hissed and Harry laughed out loud. They sat in uncomfortable silence for another minute before Mycroft finally roared, “For god’s sake, how long is this going to go on for? They’re teenagers- one of them should have finished by now!”

Harry chuckled. “Maybe we should go for a walk,” she tried, standing up.

“Brilliant idea,” Mycroft agreed, grabbing a jumper and twitching as the cries behind the wall grew higher in pitch before he slammed the room door and followed Harry down the hotel hall.

                                                                                …

Naturally, he found himself alone with the little idiot the next morning. His natural instinct screamed at him to pretend the whole thing had never happened but he really couldn’t pass up the opportunity to rub something in the younger teen’s face.

“Sleep well, little brother?” he tried casually, hands in his pockets.

Sherlock bristled at his attempt to start conversation. “Perfectly fine,” he grumbled and Mycroft smiled to himself.

 “You’ve very lucky Mummy took a room on another floor,” he teased, noting how red his little brother’s face grew as he figured out where this was going. “Imagine how appalled she would have been to hear such noises coming from the room two brothers were supposed to be sharing?”

Sherlock balked. “What noises?” he tried to brush off but Mycroft had no mercy.

“Oh please Sherlock, you are quite loud.”

“I am not loud,” Sherlock insisted, face nearly cherry-red.

“Yes you are,” Harry agreed, coming over from the staircase. She smiled at Mycroft and the genius smiled back at the memory of their long walk the night before. No one had ever told him that skinny dipping was-

“Yes love, you are,” John said, interrupting his thoughts as he stood next to his sister and the two of them high-fived. Well that was one way to react, Mycroft supposed.

“Jealous, Mycroft?” Sherlock said, finally settling on a method of insult. It sounded weak to them both and Sherlock knew he’d lost this round of their never-ending fight.

“Of you? Not particularly- no offense John,” Mycroft acknowledged, nodding to his brother’s counterpart.

“None taken,” John shuddered and Mycroft felt his mobile ring in his pocket.

“Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a call to take,” he said, taking out the phone and retreating to a corner of the lobby. He felt his face light up at the caller ID and leaned against the wall.

“Good morning Gregory,” he greeted, turning around in disgust as his little brother chose that moment to kiss his paramour in the middle of the hotel lobby like no one was watching.

“Hey Mycroft,” Greg answered and was it just Mycroft’s imagination or did he sound distracted? “Look, I need to meet with Caroline on Tuesday so can we move our get-together to Wednesday instead?”

Mycroft felt his skin crawl. “Of course,” he said kindly, trying to pretend the very thought of his Gregory spending the day with the blonde woman didn’t make him violently nauseous. “I figured out how to get the boys out of the house. There’s this fair about two hours away.”

“Brilliant,” Greg encouraged and he really did seem preoccupied. “Hey, I gotta run but I’ll see you Wednesday, okay?”

“Okay,” Mycroft parroted and then he was gone and Mycroft was left staring at a silent phone, that same wrong taste in his mouth.


	10. Chapter 10

He cornered John after dinner, two tickets to the Hampshire fair in his hands, and tried to make him an offer too good to pass up.

John, the clever boy, wasn’t immediately sold. “Will there be assassins at this fair?” he asked carefully and Mycroft was both annoyed and grudgingly impressed

Mycroft laughed. One day, he hoped, he’d have the power to summon assassins to a country fair. That task was still beyond him now.  “I’m actually trying to be nice, John,” he replied, trying guilt instead.

“Doubtful,” John muttered and then seemed to regret it, trying a smile as he said “Thank though,” and took the tickets from Mycroft.  “Now tell me what this is really about.”

The kid had instincts. “Must I always have ulterior motives?”

“No,” John conceded. “But this is so fishy, it stinks. So out with it.”

A very soft voice in his head urged him to confide in the quieter boy. Harry was as close to a ‘confidant’ as he’d ever gotten but there was something about her younger, softer brother that made people want to open up to him. “Harry’s meeting with Clara tomorrow and I rather hoped to have the house to myself,” he found himself confessing in a rush and then winced at the look that crossed John’s face.

 “Mycroft-“ he stared and then forcibly stopped himself. “I shouldn’t,” he apologized, backing up. “It’s not my business. I don’t even want to know really.”

“Out with it, John,” he goaded, very aware he was playing with fire. “Best not keep these things bottled up.”

“It’s just-“ and oh god, he was about to take relationship advice from a child. “Is he still married?”

_Yes they fucking are_ he thought and then censored. “Technically. They’re not living together though.”

“Christ,” John swore unexpectedly and Mycroft was sure he blinked in surprise, staring at the younger teen. “I just- I don’t want you getting hurt Mycroft.”

And wasn’t that rich? Had his life actually gotten itself so twisted that he needed a child to worry about him? For a very strong moment, he felt absolutely disgusted with himself. “Oh John, don’t you know? I don’t have a heart,” he said softly, turning around. “Just ask Sherlock.”

And yes, this was his life now. He was a boy turning man, failing at friendships and struggling eternally for power, dating a man twice his age in secret. He dared say he deserved John’s pity- it wasn’t like he was going to get it from anyone else.

 

* * *

 

Greg didn’t call before he came. Mycroft heard the soft ring of the doorbell, echoing through the empty house, and glanced at his silent phone suspiciously. The boys had left hours ago, Harry was with Clara and their mothers were at some spa or another. He padded down quickly to the door and threw it open, smiling instinctively at the grizzled inspector standing there.

And then his mind did _the thing_ and dear god, where had all the oxygen in the room gone? He couldn’t breathe, it was like someone was choking him around the neck, as his eyes skimmed over _rumpled clothes- worn yesterday, stale cologne, wine stain on the left sleeve, blonde hai-_

“Spent the whole drive up here figuring out how to say this right,” Greg sighed, hands in his back pockets and Mycroft struggled to stay upright. “Should have known you’d just do your thing.”

“You slept with her,” Mycroft said, a hollow shell of a word, as though expecting the phrase to mean something else entirely once it left his mouth. But it just fell and shattered at their feet as Greg didn’t even have the shame to look embarrassed.

“Let’s not do this outside,” he offered instead and Mycroft stepped wordlessly back on autopilot. They were in the exact same positions, Greg standing before him like some shameless exhibit of sin, and Mycroft staring at him as though he’d been punched in the solar plexus.

“I don’t understand,” he gasped and Greg gave a rough laugh.

“You’re supposed to be the genius,” he tried a joke but Mycroft barely had enough air to breathe, let alone laugh. “I went over her last night. We talked-“

“You can’t lie to me,” Mycroft hissed, suddenly regaining his bearings.

Greg raised his hands in surrender. “Wasn’t planning on it. I don’t understand why you’re so surprised though, you had to have known this was how it was going to end.”

He hadn’t expected that to hurt as much as it did. “Oh, should I have?”

“We’ve been irresponsible, both of us,” Greg explained, still stoically calm and Mycroft was overwhelmed with the desire to punch him. “I have children My, and I haven’t been acting like a father. I need to start doing that now.”

“By going back to her?” Mycroft demanded, lost. “By staying with that…that dragon woman?”

“She’s not a dragon-“

“She cheated on you!” Mycroft roared and oh god, he was alive now. He could feel fire in the tips of his fingers and toes, boiling in his chest, and yes- this was _anger_. Anger, he knew what to do with. “Repeatedly! She made your life-“

“She made a mistake!” Greg defended, lighting up as well. “I did too- we both did!”

Mycroft stepped back, dumbfounded. “Is that what I am?” he murmured, soft and broken. “A mistake?”

“My-“

“Was that was this all was to you? You and me, playing house?” Mycroft shouted and there were doing this in the hallway; that was beyond inappropriate.

“What did you think would happen?” Greg insisted. “Did you think we would live happily ever after in some perverted fantasy?”

“Perverted-“

“Don’t you play innocent with me, Mycroft Holmes!” Greg roared. “You knew exactly what you were doing when you seduced a married man-“

“Seduced?” Mycroft begged, incredulously. “I _seduced_ you? Is that what happened? And here I have these vague memories of you pushing me up a against a brick fucking wall-“

 “it was an _affair_!” Greg shouted and it reverberated off the glass chandeliers. “This was not a relationship; don’t act like it was one.”

Mycroft blinked. “I thought-“ he started and that couldn’t be _his_ voice, coming out of his mouth, his voice didn’t sound nearly so broken and young-

“Don’t,” Greg stopped him, hand held up. “I was what, number fifty seven? Stop this emotional manipulation game you play-“

“I told you I loved you,” and there it was. The genius reduced to sniveling child.

“You’re twenty-one, Mycroft,” Greg sighed, like this was a level of stupidity that wearied him. “You have no idea what love is. You were no more in love with me than I was with you. Let this go.”

There was a sharp pain in his chest. _Ah yes, that would be my heart breaking_. He’d heard the ridiculous metaphor before but he understood it now. It truly did feel like someone was stabbing him in the chest repeatedly, twisting the blade so it pierced deeper, ripping out everything he’d ever loved about someone.

“I’ll clear my stuff out of your flat,” Greg was saying but Mycroft was only half-listening. It sounded most like the roaring of the sea, loud and undecipherable. “Leave the key on the table and all that.”

“You told me you loved me too,” he said suddenly, like a trump card laid out on the table and Greg just looked at him like he was something to be pitied. He almost took it back, just to avoid that look.

“I do,” he said simply, hands back in his pockets like weapons sheathed after a battle. “Just not as much as you seem to believe I do.

“This won’t affect anything with Sherlock-“ he seemed to be adding on and Mycroft snapped.

“Leave,” he demanded, sounding hollow and shell-shocked to his own ears. Greg froze mid-sentence. “Please,” he added on, hating himself for it. But that seemed to wake Greg up and he nodded, moving to open the door.

“I’m sorry, Mycroft,” he said gently and how the hell had this happened?

“No,” Mycroft said and Greg seemed to step back at his new tone of voice. It was a voice he’d only sampled before, one he’d borrowed from his father, and he was surprised to see how well it fit now, how easily it covered all the newly-shattered pieces of his heart.

“It is I who should be sorry, for misunderstanding the nature of our relationship,” he finished and Greg looked mildly relieved. Mycroft was glad the voice hid his shock. Was this what Greg had expected? Had he thought he would have dumped Mycroft and would have encountered this voice? A Mycroft who nodded and said _yes, understandable. Perfectly logical, thank you for the sex, carry on._ “Trust me when I say it will not happen again.”

“Yeah well, good luck with everything,” Greg tried a smile. It fit wrong and Mycroft was faintly allayed when he let it fall. He watched everything he’d come to spin his life around walk down the stairs and to the drive way and then stayed watching as the car pulled away. He closed the door long after the inspector’s car had vanished from view and then walked to the den where he sat on the couch and stared at the wall.

Well. That was-

                                                                                ….

The phone call startled him out of his vigil.

“Hello?” he answered his mobile, faintly impressed by how level his voice was.

“Mycroft?” and that was definitely John, frantic and out of his mind. “Mycroft, Sherlock’s gone missing.”

“What?” Mycroft snapped, already standing up. He stared at his watch, shocked to find he’d lost _3 hours_ feeling sorry for himself. It was shameful. “Start from the beginning.”

John was trying to stay level=headed and reasonable; he could hear him taking calming breaths through the phone. “We were at the fair. I went to get food and when I came back, he was gone. I’ve texted him sixteen times. I even tried calling. He is gone, Mycroft. He’s nowhere on the fair grounds.”

“There’s a service area about five kilometers from where you are now,” he instructed, looking at a map on his phone. If his brother had indeed been kidnapped, it wouldn’t do for John to stay standing at the scene of the crime. “I’ll meet you there as soon as I can.”

It was nearly a three hour drive to where John was. Mycroft spent it with his mobile on speaker in the front seat, yelling at people. God, how he wished he was powerful enough to have an actually useful network. The first thing he was going to do once he had access to CCTVs was have footage of his little brother constantly monitored so that when _this_ happened, he wouldn’t be running around headless in the dark.

John was going out of his mind. Mycroft had barely parked the car before the teen was running to him, eyes filled with worry.

“What do we know?” he asked.

“I need you to go over your last minutes with Sherlock,” he ordered, walking them over to a picnic bench. “Loudly. I have a man on the phone who needs to hear it. Are you there Jones?”

“Yeah,” a smoke-tarnished voice answered from the other end. Jones was as close as he had to an ‘eyes everywhere’ man. The guy was a pro at hacking surveillance cameras and Mycroft had done him countless favors during his time as an intern. Jones owed him.

John carefully went over every last detail, enunciating so clearly there was no way Jones was missing this. Mycroft could hear typing in the background as John tried to describe the clothes Sherlock had been wearing and then Jones was back on.

“I’ll call you,” he instructed and the line went dead.

Jones only gave them a twenty minute worry-period before he called back. Mycroft picked up to hear,

“Found the little bugger. He’s on the side of the road,” Jones informed him and Mycroft could hear him driving. “I’ll send you the location. Hurry though, I’m with him and I got things to do.”

“Yes, yes. We’re on our way,” Mycroft answered, bristling as he hung up the phone. He turned to John and said, “They found him.”

John got the message quickly. “Where?” he asked as they ran to Mycroft’s car. He’d arranged for someone to come pick up John’s; there was no way he was letting the younger boy, or his little brother once they found him, drive home in a separate car. He wanted them where he could see them.

“By the side of the highway,” Mycroft said, opening the driver’s side as John jumped in the back. “He’s alive.”

They found Sherlock thirty kilometers from the service area, leaning against Jones’s beat-up old car. Jones himself was waiting for them and Mycroft shook his hand with a brief thank-you before the man was back in his car and driving off.

John only had eyes for Sherlock though, and the boy was a mess. Four livid bruises highlighted his face and his sleeves were torn to show off rows of bruises, cuts and cigarette burns. His hair was a greasy mess of curls and for some reason or another he held a dirty stuffed bear in his arms like a child.

He was already being interrogated by John when Mycroft rushed him. “Get him in the car, John,” he ordered, glancing around nervously at the road, and John had the common sense to listen, both boys piling into the back as Mycroft immediately started driving.

“Moriarty sends his regards,” Sherlock said casually from behind him and Mycroft felt his heart lurch even as he nodded. He should have known immediately. They were having another one of their implied conversations again and Mycroft got the hidden message. _Fuck you, this was your fault._

“Don’t tell Mummy anything,” Mycroft ordered, and his own hidden message was just as clear. _I’m sorry. Don’t ruin my life for this._

“Obviously,” Sherlock replied and Mycroft sighed. _I’m not an idiot. Now you just owe me._

“Not obviously!” John cried suddenly and Mycroft remembered the boy was in the car. “We’re calling your mum, the police, hell we need to take him to a hospital-“

“I’m not badly injured,” Sherlock cut him off and John looked seconds away from an all-out wobbly. “I’m not, John. Moriarty was careful. These just look bad, that was the point. It wouldn’t have done him any good to kill me.”

“We can’t go to the police,” Mycroft insisted, stopping this conversation before it got started. This was the problem with involving goldfish. They didn’t see the bigger picture; they were too wrapped up in their own little moment. “Moriarty will just buy himself off and then he’ll be angrier. Let him think he’s won this round.”

John was not appeased. “I dare say he has! This isn’t a game, Mycroft!”

“Yes it is,” Sherlock replied and Mycroft was never so grateful for another genius in his life. “It’s the most dangerous game ever played. Although I would appreciate if you left me out of your games in the future Mycroft.”

“I tried!” Mycroft heard himself yell and was surprised by it. Although, in all fairness, he’d had a rough day. He took a minute to calm himself before adding, “I told him you weren’t fair game. He laughed.”

Sherlock paused, obviously surprised Mycroft had done anything at all to protect him. “I don’t-“ he stumbled and Mycroft suddenly felt the desire to tell him everything.

“Do you know what he told me?” he said conversationally, as though not discussing a murderous psychopath. “Once, when our paths crossed in person. He told me he’d burn the heart out of me.”

He could still feel the cold shiver of that night, even in the July heat, of that moment as he’d held Moriarty up by his collar outside Sherlock’s dorm in the flashing ambulance lights and the boy had laughed at him with soulless eyes.

“Obviously he didn’t do his research or he’d realize I’m hardly the heart of you-“ Sherlock tried to brush off and John exploded.

“Oh shut up!” he yelled and Mycroft could feel he and Sherlock raise their eyebrows in tandem. “Both of you! I’m sick and tired of you both moaning on and on about how no one cares about you! Jesus Christ!”

He could hear John turning on his brother in the backseat and let out a soft breath that he’d been spared. “He cares about you Sherlock. For god’s sake, he’s your brother! He loves you, you goddamn idiot! He nearly went out of his skin worrying when you disappeared,” John ranted and Mycroft ordered himself not to flush.

“And you!” John cried and Mycroft very much wished he wasn’t in a car so he could walk away from this conversation. This is your fault, you know, always insisting you don’t have a heart. God, you both have the worst case of martyrdom complex I’ve ever seen!

“People care about you, both of you!” John went on ranting, the car filling with his violent attempts at peacemaking. “I care about you. Your mum cares about you, my mum cares about you. For Christ’s sake, you care about each other! Could you both act like full-grown adults and just admit you’re people with emotions and feelings and you love each other, Jesus Christ.”

The resounding silence was deafening. Mycroft could hardly believe what he’d just heard and he was still turning it over in his mind when his brother let out a soft, “I-“

“No talking,” John ordered, and Mycroft could hear him crossing his arms and leaning back in his seat. “I’m done with both of you for the day.”

There was a pause in which Mycroft resolutely did not take his eyes off the road before Sherlock tried again. “Can we please pull over?” he asked and Mycroft heard the wobble in his voice. John missed it, anyone would have missed it really, but Mycroft knew exactly what it meant. He’d coached his brother through several instances in his youth and he started to look for service areas as John asked,

“Why?” and Sherlock answered, as Mycroft had known he would,

“I think I need to throw up.” John was immediately concerned, turning to his abused charge in worry, and Mycroft had barely pulled to a stop in a service area before Sherlock was running out of the car and into a bathroom.

John followed him, standing by the door begging to be let in, before Mycroft took pity on his brother and came over, laying a hand on john’s shoulder. “He’ll be okay,” he advised. “He’s embarrassed to have you listen, step away.” He remembered distinctly holding Sherlock’s skinny shoulders when his brother had been eight, leaning on his knees by the toilet as Sherlock heaved. The tiny boy had always been mortified by the thought of other people seeing him so indisposed, but he tolerated Mycroft’s presence. He didn’t really care for his older brother’s opinion of him anyway.

John followed him back to the car and leaned back against it, staying silent a moment before swearing. “Christ, I shouldn’t have yelled at you both,” he apologized, running a nervous hand through his hair. “I’m sorry.”

“You were right,” Mycroft admitted and he could feel John’s eyes boring into the side of his face, staring in shock “We have this habit of acting like rather immature children around each other.”

There was a beat of silence before Mycroft found himself opening up again. What was it about John that just led him to trust the boy, he who trusted practically no one? “I tried to be something stable for him, after our father left,” Mycroft confessed, staring at the setting sun instead of what he knew must be a sympathetic face. “I often think I wasn’t enough.”

“No one could have been enough,” John replied softly, following his gaze. The red fireball slipping down caught John’s hair, making it shine like pure gold. “You were just a kid yourself, you shouldn’t have had to play parent.”

And yet he’d never seen it that way. He’d never looked at it as a requirement he could weasel his way out of but as a task, handed over to him by his father. It had been his job. He would never have even considered backing out, letting someone else take care of it.

“You did for him what I never could do, John,” he said mournfully, finally making eye contact. Sherlock had, in a flight of fancy, once told him John’s eyes were as readable as oceans. He understood that now. “I am forever grateful.”

John was quiet, mulling that over, and Mycroft suddenly saw a flash of the future. “One day, that will be you,” he said, letting John in on his rapid-fire thoughts, as he pointed to the bathroom where Sherlock was puking his guts out. “I am more interesting than he is for now, but I expect that to change.”

John was staring at him with something akin to fear as comprehension dawned. “I say that not as a brother, but as a genius in my own right,” Mycroft clarified. “He will be more interesting than me, one day. And when he is, people will want to hurt him. They’ll hurt you, John.”

Mycroft forced himself to make eye contact as he went on. “They’ll kidnap you and torture you to get to him,” he warned and he could see a scene not too far off, of Sherlock storming into his office with his own frantic eyes, begging Mycroft to help him find his kidnapped sidekick. “You’re his heart John, and they’ll try to burn you.

 “Perhaps it’s good you’re going to the army,” he reflected softly. “You’ll learn how to kill a man. Would you kill for him?” he surprised himself in asking but John didn’t disappoint, not even hesitating before answering,

 “Yes,” his gaze following Mycroft’s to where it lingered on the bathroom door.  

“Good,” Mycroft nodded, and Sherlock chose that moment to come out, stumbling a bit. Mycroft could read every threat, ever warning Moriarty had carved into his skin from here. He knew what every bruise was meant to say, what every cut was meant to remind him, what every burn was whispering. He could read his brother’s pale skin like a letter and it sickened him.

So he looked away, choosing to stare instead at the setting sun as John ran to Sherlock, helping him lovingly to the car, before he got in the driver’s seat and they started the long, silent drive home.

 

* * *

 

Sherlock came into Mycroft’s room around midnight, not even bothering to knock. Mycroft would have been shocked if he had. The older Holmes had spent the last two hours desperately trying to figure out where Moriarty had taken Sherlock and where he might be now, but he looked up gently as Sherlock padded in, wearing nothing but a dressing down and sleep-bottoms, and sat down on Mycroft’s bed.

From the state of his little brother’s hair, it looked like Sherlock had enjoyed the last two hours considerably more than Mycroft had and he winced internally. “Figured I’d save you the trouble of fetching me,” Sherlock explained kindly from where he sat cross-legged atop Mycroft’s duvet.

“I appreciate that,” Mycroft acknowledged, turning in his desk chair so he faced his little brother. “Though I wouldn’t have minded if you’d taken a few minutes to shower first. Must you shove all evidence of your sex life in my face?”

Sherlock didn’t blush, most likely just to be contrary, and had he been younger he would have stuck his tongue out. “It’s not as though I can’t deduce yours every time you turn around. I work with the man Mycroft, it’s practically an invasion of privacy.”

The wound in Mycroft’s chest that he’d resolutely ignored for the past few hours in worry over his brother suddenly re-opened and hit Mycroft with a fresh wave of pain. He nearly closed his eyes it was so bone-shattering.

“Well, as of this morning you no longer have to worry about that,” Mycroft informed him primly and Sherlock blinked a moment before he understood.

“Oh,” his little brother said, a centimeter off balance. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

“No you’re not,” Mycroft brushed off, feigning casualty. “But that’s not why you’ve left John sleeping alone.”

Sherlock smirked at that, probably recalling a finer point of the evening. “He’s a deep sleeper; he wouldn’t notice if I brought a brass band in. So what do you need from me?”

“Every detail of your encounter with Moriarty,” he instructed, sitting back in his chair. “Leave nothing out.”

“Should have guessed,” he sighed, leaning back against the headboard. “Honestly, he said very little. He was mostly messing with me. Kept stressing this was not about me but was a message for you, thank you for that.” He directed that line at Mycroft and the older boy winced.

“I did try-“ he started and Sherlock waved him off.

“I know,” he brushed and went on. “He confessed my overdose in February was a strike against you. I’m starting to think he tampered with what he gave me. He said all that nonsense about bringing you down and some massive competition stretching back months and then read John’s frantic text messages to me.

“He really thinks you’re interesting,” he added softly, and Mycroft was surprised and slightly honored to note a hint of concern in his brother’s voice. “I don’t know _why_ , but he’s coming for you. I’m just a pawn right now.”

“I wouldn’t say pawn,” Mycroft tutted, turning in his own chair contemplatively. “Rook maybe. Possibly even a bishop.”

“Not a knight?” Sherlock smirked and Mycroft raised an eyebrow.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he chided and Sherlock laughed out loud. There was a beat of silence before Sherlock suddenly snapped up, leaning all his weight forward.

“I forgot!” he cried, berating himself. “When he first took me, back at the fair, he asked me if you were still dating Lestrade. I didn’t think anything of it but now-“

Both brothers locked eyes as comprehension dawned over them simultaneously. “And here I thought Jim was an idiot,” Sherlock let out in a breath. “He didn’t know which one of us was your heart-“

“-so he burned both,” Mycroft finished softly, barely believing the words.

“But that means Lestrade was coerced!” Sherlock insisted, eyes wide. “He must be in danger-“

“No Sherlock,” Mycroft sighed and even as he said it, he knew it was true. “He wasn’t…being coerced. I saw the man’s eyes. Moriarty may have done something to expedite the process but you can’t make a man want to take back his wife.” He shook his head, trying to ignore the look Sherlock was giving him. “Not like that. Not the way he did it.”

Now the idea of Moriarty was making sense. Had the boy said something to Caroline, engineered a chance encounter meant to go perfectly? Had he trained one of the daughters to say something; posed as an old acquaintance to make a casual remark? Whatever he’d done, and Mycroft was sure he’d done something, it didn’t matter much. If Greg had really lo-…well then it wouldn’t have worked.

He was aware Sherlock was staring at him and all at once he felt unbearably awkward. “Thank you for coming to me,” he offered softly, hearing rather than seeing Sherlock stand at the hint. “You should get some sleep. You rather need to heal.”

He heard Sherlock shuffle to the door and then pause in the doorway. “I may not have approved of the dalliance but I am sorry you’ve been hurt,” he said suddenly, all in a rush as though the sentiment pained him, and Mycroft shuddered.

He wanted to rage at the boy, to yell at him, to scream and cry _Please, for the love of god, just leave_. But older brothers were not allowed such liberties. So instead he said, “Thank you,” not looking up and Sherlock hesitated a moment before walking out and closing the door behind him.

                                                                                …

Harry came home around one in the morning. Mycroft heard Clara’s car drop her off and pull away and soon enough there were small feet padding up to his door and a head peaking in.

“Oh good, you’re still up,” she whispered happily, rushing in. She was dressed for a date in jeans and unstained tee-shirt and she bounded onto his bed like an overexcited puppy. “How was your day?”

How was his day? His brother had been kidnapped and threatened by a psychopath because of decisions _he_ was making and would not stop making even though they were endangering the people he loved. He was questioning his career choices, his priorities, his entire life plan, and he couldn’t tell her any of that because it would put her in just as much danger.

“Greg broke up with me,” he said softly because it was all he _could_ say and it felt weak and inconsequential next to everything he’d gone through in the past few hours. So much so he even felt guilty for how much it still hurt.

But Harry was nothing but sympathetic. “Oh love,” she cooed, crawling to where he sat further up in the bed and hugging him, draping herself over him like some sort of cat. “Oh, Mycroft.”

“He’s back together with Caroline,” he explained gently, as though she was the one who needed to be coddled. “I’m not sure if _back_ is the right term to use but that’s all.”

“That bastard,” Harry swore and Mycroft adored her for it. “I’ll kill him for you. Do you want me to?”

“No,” Mycroft laughed, surprising himself as he slipped one arm around her shoulder, allowing her to curl into his side. “I’m thankful really.”

Harry made a puzzled noise and he tried to clarify. “I’ve spent my whole life listening to my parents tell me caring is not an advantage. This is the first time I have proof.” And what proof it was. He’d been so distracted by his broken heart, his brother had been kidnapped and tortured by a madman. He’d nearly lost everything all at once. Priorities needed to be established and Greg had done that for him, one last act of kindness. 

But Harry wasn’t looking at him with comprehension but with pity and Mycroft felt lost. “I really will kill him,” she whispered, kissing his forehead and he didn’t quite understand. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So apparently none of you are surprised. I can't figure out if that means I did a good job or a bad job.
> 
> Now don't you fret my children, this is not the end. In fact, you could say this is only the beginning *evil laugh*. See you soon <3 Shay


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, it's been a while. Don't throw stones; I'm sensitive.  
> You shouldn't ever worry. I'll tell you a secret: this is my favorite thing I'm writing. It's not ending till it's over ;)

**Two years later**

“The reports are in sir,” Margaret said, peeking her head into Mycroft’s office. “Do you want them now, or-?”

“File them first,” Mycroft instructed. “Give me the final statements once they’ve been photocopied.”

“Yes sir,” she nodded, her heels clicking on the tile outside his own carpeted room as she made her way back to her desk. Mycroft appreciated Margaret. She wasn’t precisely his secretary, she hadn’t anywhere near the security clearance she’d need to read some of his more tame documents, but she never stuck her nose into things she was told to ignore and made photocopies and phone calls without sneaking peeks. So he got away with having an extra set of hands.

Mycroft’s mobile buzzed on his desk and he sighed at it. Chances were it was Sherlock; this flat sharing nonsense was driving him mental. But the London flat was close to his office and Sherlock refused to dorm at Cambridge and so they were making due. It was the closest quarters they’d ever had to share and Mycroft was silently thanking Mummy for choosing to raise them in the country house or he would’ve killed Sherlock long before puberty.

He was just settling in to a report on the rising tensions in India written by a man with the penmanship of a compulsive liar when a commotion at the end of the hall filtered down into his office.

“-and I was told-“ a voice was saying but he couldn’t quite make it out.

“Sir, who are you looking for?” a clearer voice, Margaret, called down to the intruder.

“I’m looking for the sonofabitch who took my bloody case,” the man answered in a voice that was strikingly familiar and Mycroft only had a minute to recover from his total shock before Greg Lestrade strode into his office.

“Look here-oh shit,” Greg started before his voice faded to something softer and more vulnerable. Mycroft couldn’t resist reading him- exhaustion was written in every one of his pores and there was a small stain from wax- likely crayon- on the cuff of his trousers. He was also staring at Mycroft with the wide-open brown eyes the genius hadn’t seen in two years.

Oh god. Mycroft hated the suit he was wearing; it did terrible things for his waist. And fuck, his hair! He’d barely combed it- this was not how one was supposed to run into one’s ex. One was supposed to run into an ex while well-polished, preferably on the arm of someone hotter. Mycroft’s hands were cracking from the cold and he was fairly sure one of his pens had left an ink stain on him somewhere.

“Sir,” Margaret followed him in, sparing Mycroft from having to respond, “I tried to stop him but he just burst in-“

“it’s quite all right Margaret,” he assured her as calmly as he could manage. “I’m sure this will only take a minute.”

“Yeah, I’m sorry to barge in,” Greg spoke up, suddenly regaining his composure. “I asked to see the man responsible for restricting my case and I guess I got lost-“

“You did not,” Mycroft cut him off, crossing his fingers delicately on his desk. He was constantly hyper-aware of how young he was, at twenty-four he was actually a few months younger than Margaret, but never had he been more conscious of it than in front of Greg. The years between them had never felt longer than they did with Mycroft sitting behind the desk and Greg staring back at him.

Greg was just as baffled. “You pulled my case?” he asked, confused, and Margaret made a hasty exit. Clever girl.

“I did not know it was your case when I reclaimed it, but yes I did,” Mycroft said primly, trying to ignore how fast his heart was beating against his ribs. “I assume you are referring to the Renley case?”

“Yeah, I am,” Greg growled, regaining his footing. “As in James Renley, the man my team and I have been chasing for six months only to be told at the crime scene this morning that it was no longer ours.”

The phrase _my team_ made Mycroft realize he hadn’t been the only one promoted in the past two years. “I apologize Inspector, or should I say Detective Inspector,” he replied carefully and Greg stared. “I understand you were very involved in this case but unfortunately your team no longer has the necessary clearance level to handle it.”

“And what, you do?” Greg snorted.

Mycroft smiled lazily, like a cat stretching. “Oh no,” he lavished, unsure why he was enjoying this. ”I have several levels higher.”

Greg gaped at him. Small victories at the very least. “This wasn’t an issue six months ago,” he said finally. “Or even last week for that matter.”

“Yes well, things have become slightly more complicated,” Mycroft answered diplomatically. “So unless you believe your team capable of handling an assassin from Serbia wanted by Interpol, it’s best you leave this case with us.” Oh god, he shouldn’t have said that. He hadn’t meant to say that. Why was he letting Greg fluster him _now_ , two full years later?

Greg blinked. “Interpol?” he said skeptically. “You’re working for Interpol now?”

“Ah, not quite,” Mycroft winced. Already his job title was hazy at best but he came up with the best explanation he could manage. “I’m handling information breaches at the moment. Your case qualified.”

“Wow,” Greg murmured and Mycroft realized a few seconds too late that the conversation had shifted directions. God, he was off today. “You’re doing well for yourself then? Swanky office and everything.”

“As are you,” he tried back. “Congratulations on the promotion inspector, it was rather overdue.”

“You can still call me Gregory, you know,” Greg said softly and Mycroft didn’t trust himself on the note of hurt he thought he heard in the inspector’s voice. “You don’t have to call me ‘Detective Inspector’ like we’ve never necked on your couch.”

Mycroft forced himself not to flush by sheer willpower. God bless Margaret and her staunch policy not to eavesdrop. “We are both professionals now, Detective Inspector. I’d prefer to leave my own personal life out of my job if you don’t mind.”

“Right,” Greg blushed. “Okay then, suit yourself. Um, how are you? You look good.”

He did not look good and they both knew it. “I’m well, thank you. How’s Charlotte?”

“Caroline,” Greg corrected and he didn’t point out Mycroft’s eidetic memory, which was kind of him. “She’s good, thank you.”

“And the girls?” Mycroft asked carefully, not caring in the least.

“They’re good,” Greg minced but his eyes sparkled at the mention of them. “Beth’s starting infant school, we’re very proud.”

“That’s lovely,” Mycroft tried. That sounded like something he ought to be saying. “Congratulations.”

Greg smiled and something hit Mycroft like a rock. He’d forgotten how wonderful that smile was and oh _fuck_ did he miss it. That was the smile Greg used to give him after they woke up the morning a wonderful late-night shag and fuck, he felt like puking.

“Thanks,” Greg said, still smiling and Mycroft definitely needed to vomit. Or cry. “I should go, but it was good seeing you again.”

“You too,” he lied poorly but they both pretended not to notice.

“Well, have a good day,” Greg tried before walking out his office as casually as he could manage. Mycroft waited two full minutes before he let himself collapse, head on his desk as he took in shaky breaths. He wasn’t sure why he felt like he’d been beaten bloody.

“Margaret,” he called out and heard her chipper confirmation that she was now listening. “Move my lunch appointment to three if you can.”

“Not a problem, sir,” she called back and Mycroft sat up to find his mobile.

 _How soon can you get lunch?- MH_ he texted Harry and sighed. Today he felt he rather deserved a drink with his meal.

                                                                                                *

“He just waltzed in?” Harry shrieked appropriately over her usual salad.

“Barged in really,” he adjusted, sipping his wine. Harry had been sober for three years now and could easily handle the sight of another person drinking. It made him unreasonably proud. “You would have thought I’d mortally wounded him and he was seeking reparations.”

“And you were wearing this?” she hissed and he nodded, ashamed. She bit her lower lip, considering, before finally nodding emphatically. “It’s okay. If you were sitting, all he’d get is the fantastic thing this jacket does to your shoulders. You’re fine.” And this was why he loved telling Harry things. She knew how to overreact to the degree he’d imagined someone should react in his mind. She was nothing short of the perfect listener.

“Hey,” she said softer, rubbing his hand on the table and he met her eyes. “Running into your ex is hard, I know. But this isn’t the worst that could have happened. At least you didn’t run into him at Tesco’s in trackies buying maxi-pads.”

“I take it that’s happened to you,” he laughed and she smiled back, glad to see him recovering.

“Too many times,” she sighed. “Thank god for Clara. We’re going to the cinema tonight, for your information.”

“What are you seeing?” he asked politely.

“I don’t know,” she shrugged. “Although we won’t really be watching the film, if you know what I mean.” She waggled her eyebrows comically and he couldn’t help the laugh that escaped him.

“What she sees in you, I will never know,” he teased and Harry slapped his arm playfully.

“Oh shush you,” she chided. “What are you doing tonight?”

Mycroft pretended to think about it a minute. “Working, most likely,” he said finally because he didn’t feel much like lying and Harry turned purple.

“It’s Friday!” she scolded. “You’re supposed to be out there meeting a hot stranger and shagging them senseless in your flat. Or their flat, what with Sherlock,” she shuddered. “When’s the last time you had sex?”

Mycroft could pinpoint the last second he’d had sex- with Greg two years ago. Fuck, this wasn’t a dry spell, it was self-imposed chastity. Harry saw his hesitation and she groaned.

“What’s happened to you, Mycroft? Where’s the darling slag I fell in love with?” she bemoaned. “We used to be slags together and we’d talk about all the people we’d shagged the night before!”

“And then you took up monogamy,” he reminded her.

“And that’s why I need you!” she finished, throwing up her hands. “I need to live vicariously through you! So for god’s sake, fuck somebody!”

The woman at the table next to theirs glared at them and Harry slowly lowered her arms. “For me?” she begged but Mycroft shrugged. He hadn’t shagged anyone because he hadn’t wanted to. It felt like too big a statement to say Greg had ruined sex for him, but the man had come damn near close.

“This is actually not why I wanted to meet with you,” Mycroft spoke up carefully and Harry glanced back at him. “I’m thinking of taking that promotion they offered me. The one I told you about last week.”

“The one in bloody Edinburgh?” she gaped and Mycroft nodded. “Myc, I know you just had a terrible run-in with your ex, but that is not a reason to flee to Scotland!”

“That’s not why,” he said quickly and she leveled her stare at him. “Okay, it’s part of the reason but not for what you think. It’s just- this is going to happen again,” he tried to explain his logic. “I will keep taking cases from him and eventually he’ll do something. And there are problems here, real bias problems, and he could-“

“He knows how professional you are!” Harry cut him off. “He knows you would never take a case from him out of spite-“

“He knows and I know,” Mycroft finished, reclaiming his speech. “But he’s a good detective. And eventually I’ll take a case that he desperately wants and he’ll play that card because it will get him what he wants. The last thing I need is my whole office knowing my sexual history; it’s better to head it off at the front.”

“But-“ Harry begged, still distressed, “but it’s bloody Scotland.”

“Exactly,” he nodded. “It’s a smaller branch. In a year I’ll be running it and when I come back- it will put me in a very powerful position, Harry. It’s too good an opportunity to pass up. I considered declining for so long because I wasn’t thrilled about the…location but I’m sure now. And the flat’s too small for me and Sherlock; he’ll be thrilled to see me move.”

“I’ll miss you,” she reminded him and that was how well she knew him; she knew he needed to be reminded that people cared for him.

“I’ll visit,” he promised, letting her squeeze his hand. “Constantly. And I’ll be back within a year.”

Harry tried to smile. “I know I should be happy for you. You’re finally getting everything you ever wanted. I just wish you weren’t getting it so far away.”

“You’re right,” he said softly and she looked at him, surprised. “What you said earlier, you’re right. I’m stuck. A change of scenery might do me well.” He took a deep breath and met her eyes. “Seeing…Gregory made me realize I need to get out of here for a while.”

Harry managed a watery grin. “You’ll let me throw you a goodbye party,” she demanded, not even bothering to phrase it as a question.

“Naturally,” he promised and she managed her smile.

 

* * *

 

He was sitting on the sofa reading _The Times_ when he heard Sherlock chatting at the door. That was unusual in itself- Sherlock didn’t talk to people and certainly not to people outside the door of their flat.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, good night,” he heard his little brother call as he opened the flat door and now _that_ was damn near unnatural.

“Who was that?” Mycroft asked nonchalantly from his perch, careful not to let his interest show.

Sherlock bristled anyway. “Friend of mine,” he defended.

Mycroft snorted and Sherlock glared at him, all hot-burning torch. “I have friends,” he sniffed and Mycroft held himself back from laughing aloud.

“What is this friend’s name?” he pressed.

Sherlock hesitated a moment before answering. “Victor. He just drove me home; he had business in London.”

“I’m sure he did,” Mycroft said idly, turning a page. “And does John know about this _Victor?_ ”

“Not yet,” Sherlock confessed and Mycroft actually looked up in interest. “He will though; I’ll tell him this phone call. I just haven’t had a chance to yet.” John had been in the army for two years, long enough to earn him weekly phone calls, but not long enough that he had his own number they could call. They simply had to wait for him to ring. It drove Sherlock near mental.

“Of course not,” Mycroft agreed, sarcasm carefully laced into his words. “You’ve been so busy setting the flat on fire and playing violin when I’ve been attempting sleep.”

“I hate living with you,” Sherlock grouched, heading into the kitchen.

“Hm, you should have dormed,” Mycroft advised, going back to his newspaper.

He could hear Sherlock rummaging around in their fridge. The fact his little brother was eating was proof this Victor boy was something more than just a ride home. He only ever ate when he was content and Mycroft had not expected to see Sherlock content until John came back. He’d have to look up this Victor.

“That would require being able to tolerate other people,” Sherlock hissed and Mycroft heard rather than saw him take a long drink of water and shove a carton of takeaway into the microwave. It nauseated Mycroft just how much takeaway his brother enjoyed consuming. One of John’s influences, he was sure.

“Well you’ll be pleased to know we won’t be sharing much longer,” Mycroft said causally and Sherlock actually stalked back into the living room to stare at him in poorly-hidden shock. “I will be moving to Edinburgh next week- work matters.”

 Sherlock opened his mouth soundlessly, gaping like nothing short of a fish, before he collected himself. “You saw someone today,” he deduced, looking his brother up and down. The Holmes house had never been one of many secrets and Mycroft nearly spread his arms to give his brother a better look. “Someone you haven’t seen in a while.

“You had lunch with Harry- stains on your cuffs and slight inebriation- but you see her weekly,” Sherlock twitched his fingers in thought and then smirked. “You saw Lestrade, didn’t you? I never took you for the type to flee from an ex. And certainly not to Scotland.”

“I am not moving to Scotland because I saw Inspector Lestrade,” Mycroft huffed, fed up with the assumption. “I was planning on moving anyway. You need the flat more than I do right now.”

Sherlock seemed shocked into silence by the kind gesture. “I…” he tried and never finished. He glanced towards the phone, as though he was expecting John to call and chime in, but Afghanistan was leagues away and John never had any interest in their sibling disputes.

“I leave in three days,” he said softly, because the silence was growing uncomfortable. “If you care to be home to say goodbye.”

Sherlock laughed. “Goodbye Mycroft,” he brushed off, stalking to his room, and Mycroft waited until he heard Sherlock’s door close to sigh and pick himself up. He wandered off to his room to pack just as the microwave began beeping.

 

* * *

 

His flat in Edinburgh was tiny by his standards; no more than a kitchen, a bathroom, a den and a bedroom. The first thing Mycroft did as soon as he’d unpacked his meager belongings, and hadn’t that been revelatory- seeing how little he’d actually had to pack, he wandered outside for fresh air.

If one closed one eye, one could almost mistake it for London- or any city for that matter. But the streets felt older under his feet and there was something different in the breath he took in. A man smiled at him from across the street as he loitered on a corner and the sight didn’t turn his stomach and fill him with illogical grief. It couldn’t. This wasn’t London and there was no way on god’s earth that man was Greg.  

 _Yes_ he thought to himself, feeling the beginnings of a smile on his face, _this will be a lovely place to start over._


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I will be very honest. I may have cried writing this. Get tissues (I'm sorry)

“Fix your camera, all I see is your oatmeal,” Harry ordered.

Mycroft adjusted the laptop sitting on his kitchen table. Harry smiled back at him through the Skype window. “Much better,” she encouraged. “Your hair looks lovely today. And that tie was a marvelous decision.”

“Thank you, Harry,” Mycroft smiled back. “Bacon again? I thought we were diet “buddies.””

Harry giggled. “Not when you keep saying the word ‘buddy’ like it’s some kind of disease we’re not,” she teased and Mycroft found himself chuckling despite himself.

Skyping with Harry was not ideal but it was the best option they’d had without giving up their lunch dates altogether. And the mere idea of that had been intolerable. They’d taken to eating breakfast together Wednesday mornings instead of lunch because skyping at the office was unprofessional and Mycroft didn’t fancy carrying a laptop with him to a café in Edinburgh.

“Is that Mycroft?” Clara’s voice called in from off-screen. “Tell him I say hullo.”

“Good morning, Clara,” Mycroft called over warmly. He’d been silently supportive of Harry’s decision to move in with Clara. Their apartment was nicer than what Harry’d been living in and the woman was the most effective sober companion Mycroft had ever met. It felt like a privilege just to watch her.

“How’s Edinburgh treating you?” the glamorous brunette asked, leaning into frame. Her curls were pulled back in an effortless bun and she had far too glowing a face for six am.

“Same as it’s been treating me for the past five months,” Mycroft replied courteously. “Weather here is ghastly though.”

Clara chuckled. “Don’t I know it. I lived in Glasgow for a while,” she remarked, wandering off-screen again to make herself tea. Mycroft knew their morning routines by heart at this point.

“I didn’t know that,” Harry said, turning her head to follow her.

“It was just for a year when I was in lower sixth,” Clara answered and Mycroft could hear the shrug. “My father was working a high-profile case there. Mother hated it so we moved back right after.”

“Hu,” Harry remarked, filing that away. Mycroft heard the clinking of glasses and then footsteps as Clara padded away to take a shower while her tea cooled. As soon as he heard the tell-tale snap of the bathroom door, he opened his mouth.

“I met someone,” he said hesitantly and Harry spun back to him.

“Really?” she encouraged, overreacting as usual. “Is he fit?”

“He’s alright,” Mycroft said, biting back a smile. “We met at a shop, of all things. His name is Richard.”

“Do you call him Dick?” Harry demanded, full of childish amusement.

Mycroft shook his head. “No, I call him Richard like an adult, Harriet,” he chided but Harry was not pacified.

“Do you call him Dick in bed at least?” she pleaded and Mycroft flushed.

“We haven’t actually slept together yet,” he admitted carefully.

Harry blinked at him, off-guard. “Did you meet him this morning?” she asked and Mycroft finally let out the laugh he’d been holding back.

“I met him about a fortnight ago,” he admitted delicately. “We’ve been on three dates. I’m taking it slowly.”

“Slowly for you is snogging first,” Harry teased and Mycroft looked down, uncharacteristically embarrassed.

“It’s him, isn’t it?” she said after a moment’s pause. “You’re still in love with Greg. The man is back with his wife, Mycroft. You need to move on.”

“I’ve been trying!” he cried and then quieted himself, taking in a breath. “I’m trying to move on,” he ground out through gritted teeth. “It’s just proving…harder than expected.”

Harry shook her head. “Damn that bastard. He messed you up proper,” she muttered and Mycroft didn’t answer.

The silence that followed was nearly unbearable until finally Mycroft set his spoon down with a clink against the china and Harry cleared her throat.

“I should-“Mycroft started at the same time Harry said “Well you’ll-“ and they laughed, the awkwardness breached.

“I really should go to work,” Mycroft finished once they’d stopped laughing and Harry nodded.

“Yes, alright,” she smiled gently. “But you will let me know what happens with this Dick of yours, yes?”

Mycroft glared at her and she giggled. “Your stare is just as menacing over Skype; how on earth do you manage that?” she laughed out and Mycroft grinned back in spite of himself.

“Goodbye Harry,” he finished and she waved back, still giggling. With a snap, he closed the laptop and let himself breathe out. _One day at a time_ he reminded himself as he shrugged into a coat. Surely a heart could not feel like this forever?

 

* * *

He shifted imperceptibly in the chair in front of Phillip’s desk. His boss’s office shouted comfort, but it was nothing more than a cleverly constructed ruse. The whole place was built like a nail factory- every surface hid danger and pain.  Phillip shuffled several papers before looking up at Mycroft, as though he himself had not called the young clerk in.

“Ah, Mycroft. Thank you so much for coming in,” he said cheerfully. Mycroft was never going to adjust to the Irish brogue. It hit his ears oddly, a bit too strong for his tastes. Like tea with too much sugar. Ghastly. “I wanted to speak with you about your performance this quarter.”

“Is there a problem, sir?” Mycroft asked carefully, already predicting the answer.

“No, no, of course not,” Phillip protested as expected. “The opposite, in fact. Mycroft, you have been here less than half a year and you’ve already outshone every other employee in our humble branch.”

“Thank you, sir,” Mycroft conceded neatly.

Phillip shook his head with an expression of pride. Misplaced but flattering nevertheless. “You Londoners sure know how to do things,” he tittered and Mycroft inclined his head in thanks.

There was a general clearing of throats and Mycroft took the opportunity to glance out the window at the autumn leaves fluttering down to the sidewalk below. “Well what I'm getting at Mycroft is that, and don’t start protesting please,” Phillip began delicately and Mycroft perked up. “But we’d, that’s me and the masters in London, want to promote you. To associate manager- you’d be directly below me.”

It had taken bloody long enough. “Oh sir, I must protest,” Mycroft insisted lightly and Phillip waved him away.

“Nonsense, you deserve nothing less,” the old man tutted, shuffling his papers again. It practically felt like home, so many stiff upper lips everywhere.   “In fact, I felt it was long overdue. But some upper bosses thought it’d be a bit, shall we say, unorthodox, to promote you so high and so soon after you’d arrived.”

Mycroft rose carefully, making sure to straighten his jacket before extending his hand. “I am honored by your trust in me,” he said gravely. “I shall not disappoint you.”

Phillip took his hand, shaking a bit weakly. “I have no doubt you will do us proud,” he smiled and Mycroft did his best to grin back naturally. _And now to take your job, you old bat._

 

* * *

“Are you alright, Myc?” Richard asked, looking up from his food. “You’ve been so quiet.” The man was backlit by the candles in the restaurant and Mycroft could practically hear the stares of every other couple in the place. He hadn’t been lying when he’d told Harry he was…fit. At nearly 2 meters tall, with ridiculously soft-looking brown curls, Mycroft had expected his baser instincts to be begging to shag the man.

But they hadn’t been. In fact, every date felt like pulling teeth.

“Pardon me,” Mycroft excused, setting down his fork. “I’ve been so enervated this week. My apologies.”

Richard smiled back, nodding. “They’re wrecking you at that office of yours. Just relax here.”

He was courteous and attractive and he knew what enervated meant. _What more could you possibly want, you hog-tied fool?_ And yet Mycroft couldn’t stifle the part of him that wanted to sprinkle some grey in those brown locks, who wanted the conversation to revolve around the serial killer Richard was chasing rather than his drawn complexion. Never mind Richard worked in banking.

“Er, Myc,” Richard started carefully as a waiter came by to clear their plates. Mycroft’s was barely touched. “I was thinking maybe, after we finish, you can come round mine. To, maybe, chat?”

Oh dear god. He’d been dreading this. He knew at stage of this relationship he was going to have to…well, put out. But he’d been hoping Richard might prove more patient. Or asexual.

His discomfort must have shown on his face, he was slipping really, because Richard immediately looked regretful. “We don’t have to move any faster than you’re ready for-“he started and then Mycroft’s mobile rang.

Mycroft grimaced gracefully, thanking some non-existent higher power. “I really am sorry,” he excused as he fished it out of his pocket and stared at the unfamiliar number.

“Work?” Richard asked, trying not to look annoyed and failing.

Mycroft shook his head, pressing accept. “Mycroft Holmes?” he answered.

“Oh good,” the tone on the other end was brisk and chilly, with a spine of its own. “This is Chesterfield Royal Hospital. I’m sorry to inform you your mother has just been brought in- a Ms. Victoria Holmes? You’re listed as her emergency contact.”

There was a roaring in Mycroft’s ears that didn’t seem to be coming from the restaurant. He could feel Richard staring at him and yet his brain was refusing to make connections, slowing down like it was stuck in honey. “My mother?” he repeated. He abhorred repetition.

“Yes, she was in a car accident around an hour ago,” the woman on the other end supplied, sounding regretful. “She’s in surgery now. We’d suggest you come as soon as you can.”

“I’m not in the country right now,” Mycroft struggled out through the pounding in his blood. “I’ll call someone to drive up. Is she-“

“We’re not sure, Mr. Holmes,” the attendant, age thirty-two to thirty-five, former smoker, mother of at least two children said. “I’d book a flight.”

“Yes. Thank you,” he replied dimly and found himself hanging up, staring down at the phone as though it had personally wronged him.

“Myc?” Richard prompted gently, waking him up.

“It’s my mother,” Mycroft found himself whispering, meeting Richard’s eye. “She’s in hospital. I- I need to go-“

“Myc,” Richard called, grabbing him by the arm and Mycroft was surprised to find himself standing. “Let me help you.”

“It’s a five hour drive,” Mycroft calculated, drawing maps in his head. “About an hour flight. If I book one now, I have no carry-on. That’s a faster option-“

“Myc-“

“I’m terribly sorry, Richard,” Mycroft excused, detaching the hand from his arm. “I’ll call you.” And with that, he nearly ran out of the restaurant, hailing a taxi. Breathlessly, he dialed Harry’s number as he tried to book a flight on his mobile.

“Edinburgh airport,” he ordered the cabbie as he finalized a ticket. Harry picked up just as they turned onto the thruway.

“Harry, I need you to get to Chesterfield,” he explained in a gasp, mind snapping back online. “My mother has been in an accident. I’m flying out now as we speak.”

Harry’s response was immediate. “Where is she?” she asked briskly and he could hear her slipping shoes on. Bless the Watsons, who knew how to move under pressure.

“Chesterfield Royal Hospital,” he informed her as the cab took a sharp left. “She’s in surgery.”

“Has someone told Sherlock-“

“No!” he cried and the cabbie looked back suspiciously as Mycroft lowered his voice to a terse whisper. “Don’t you dare tell him. I do not want him knowing while unsupervised.”

He could Harry biting her lower lip. “Mycroft, if something happens and he’s not there because you kept him in the dark-“

“He will never forgive me, I know. Save me the lecture,” he hissed. “I’d rather he hate me forever than relapse while I’m too busy to help him.”

He could practically hear Harry’s inner debate. “Are you sure-“

“Yes,” he insisted as he emailed work. “Trust me.”

“I’m getting in a cab,” Harry said as though he couldn’t already tell over the phone. “I’ll call you when I get there.”

“Thank you,” Mycroft remembered to add as Harry hung up. Minutes later the cab pulled into Ingliston and he was shoving money at the cabbie as he ran out and rushed to catch the next available flight.

In truth, driving would probably have been faster. The sun had begun to paint the sky pink as the plane touched down in East Midlands Airport and his mobile buzzed as soon as he turning it back on. He knew what it was going to be before he even picked up.

“Mycroft,” Harry stuttered and he could barely hear her through her sobs. “Mycroft love, it’s too late.”

He did not even bother replying. He hung up the phone delicately and then sat on one of the benches inside the terminal, watching young families shepherd their children towards flights and single businessmen stride confidently with no luggage until the sun shone through the glass windows like a bright ball of shame.

                                                                                                                                    . . .

The first thing he did at exactly noon was call the family lawyer.

“Mr. Heckler,” Mycroft said into the mobile, his voice sounding hoarse to his own ears. “Sorry to trouble you.”

“Mycroft, not a trouble at all,” the man replied. Mycroft had always thought he rather looked like a toothpick slipped into a suit with pasted-on hair and dead eyes. “What can I do for you?”

“Well, my mother was just passed,” Mycroft said. It sounded wrong.

Mr. Heckler only let one beat of silence pass before he answered. “I’m terribly sorry for your loss. I assume you will need her affairs taken care of?”

“That would be ideal, yes,” Mycroft agreed. “Once we have picked a date for the funeral, I will call you to arrange the will reading. I’m on my way to identify the body now, so I will call back in a few hours.”

If Mr. Heckler thought Mycroft’s near robotical approach to his mother’s passing was odd, he didn’t mention it. “I will be available all day for you,” he said simply. “Call back at your convenience. I will begin assembling the necessary paperwork.”

“Thank you,” Mycroft said and stood to catch a cab to the hospital.

Harry was sitting in the waiting room like a shaken leaf and she clung to Mycroft the moment he walked in.

“Mycroft,” she sobbed, holding him like he was fragile. “I didn’t know what to do; there’s all this paperwork-“

“Thank you Harry,” he said gently, pushing her back lightly with his fingers. “I need you to drive back to the London flat and tell Sherlock. You should pick up your mother on the way there. You are both welcome to stay in our flat for the foreseeable future.”

Harry shook her head mutinously through the tears. “Don’t make me tell him. Please Mycroft, come back with me. I can’t do this on my own, not again.”

Too late, his brain reminded him that Harry had had to take care of all these details when her own father had passed not three years ago. Hating himself passionately, he lifted her chin so she met his eye.

“I need to take care of work here,” he reminded her softly. “I won’t be done for several hours and you are all I have. Please do this for me Harry. You’re the only person I can trust with this.”

Harry looked ready to break. She’d obviously been in bed when he’d called, she was wearing nothing more than sweatpants and a jumper, and she looked ridiculously young and fragile with her blonde hair up in a messy bun.

“Yes alright,” she nodded, clutching his hands. “Okay. God Myc-“

“Be safe,” he wished her inexplicably and then turned rather than watch her walk away. He took a minute to choke back what felt like sentiment before swallowing and walking over to the nurse’s station to identify himself.

He was led down to the basement where a kindly nurse with fraying hair and three cats asked if he was ready before pulling back a sheet. He said yes even though he wasn’t sure it was accurate.

Victoria Holmes was a battered mess. They’d explained to him on the way down that her car had been hit by a drunk driver but he hadn’t been prepared for the way her face seemed like one continuous bruise. The arms that had held him as a child were bent at wrong angles and the breast he’d pressed himself against when his father hadn’t been watching was stained with dried blood. He’d only ever seen her with her hair down three times and now it fanned out beneath her like an inky pillow He’d barely know it was her if not for the way his brain couldn’t help substituting Sherlock on the slab, purple and broken.

“That’s her,” he announced and the sheet was pulled back up. He was led to a room where he was sat down with a mug of tea and given a pile of paperwork. Mr. Heckler was called and orders were given for Victoria Holmes to be shipped to a funeral parlor like nothing more than baggage.

Papers were signed, a funeral was scheduled for next week, and Mycroft left the hospital at ten pm to begin the two and a half hour drive back to London.

When he let himself into the flat, he was greeted by silence. Someone had pulled out the sofa into a bed and a figure was lying beneath the thick duvet. On further inspection, it turned out to be Cynthia Watson, looking drawn and haggard with her eyes shifting in sleep. He padded in as quietly as he could manage and found a Harry in the kitchen, showered and clutching a cup of tea.

“Hey,” she whispered, setting the tea down and reaching out for him. “How’d it go?”

“The funeral will be next Tuesday,” he answered, letting her hug him. “How’s Sherlock?”

Harry was silent for a beat too long. “After I told him he…shut down. He locked himself in his room until John called where he sobbed on the phone and then went back to his room. He hasn’t eaten,” she confessed and he sighed.

Harry let go and set about making him tea. “You should talk to him,” she advised and he nearly laughed.

“I’m possibly the worst person to talk to my brother,” he grimaced. “I’d only make it worse.”

“He needs you,” she countered. “John was the only thing that kept me from falling to pieces after Dad died. You’re all he has now.”

Mycroft shook his head even as he accepted the tea she offered him. “It’s a bad idea, Harry. He’d never let me in anyway.”

“Try,” Harry suggested and Mycroft sipped his tea in answer. He had never felt so lost.

But after Harry had padded off to sleep on the sofa with her mother and Mycroft had set the dirty mug down in the sink, he found himself standing in the hallway outside of Sherlock’s door.

“Sherlock?’ he called softly, rapping on the door with just his knuckles. “Let me in.” There was silence and so he knocked again. “Please, Sherlock?”

“Piss off,” was all the reply he received and for some reason, it infuriated him.

“God dammit Sherlock, she was my mother too!” he nearly yelled. The flat rang with the absence of sound after his outburst and then there was the telltale click on an unlocked door. Sherlock stood there, wrapped in a sheet. His face was red and tear-stained and his hair was a veritable nest. He shuffled back so Mycroft could follow him in and then flopped back down on his bed.

The whole room looked like a tornado had ripped through it, with books lying in heaps on the floor and shattered glass from broken chemistry vials littering the carpet. Carefully, Mycroft picked his way around the rubble until he could set himself down on the edge of the untouched bed.

“What do you want?” Sherlock muttered from beneath his cocoon. “Have something to tell me? Why don’t you send a messenger a day too late to tell me that too?”

“I was trying to protect you,” Mycroft hissed at the well-deserved insult.

“I didn’t need to be protected!” Sherlock cried, sitting up. “What I needed was the chance to see Mother before she-“ he cut himself out with what sounded like a bitten-back sob. He took a breath before continuing in a shaky voice. “But you took that from me, you selfish, cold-hearted monster.”

“You’ve been crying,” Mycroft noted instead of addressing the problem because he had no right answer to give and he knew it.

“Well done, you should be a detective,” Sherlock grouched, settling back against the headboard. “Did you come all the way from Scotland to yell at me for indulging in sentiment?”

“No,” Mycroft said first, because it felt important to clarify. “No, I was wondering if it helped. I haven’t…been able to. Is it…restorative?”

“It makes you feel like shit,” Sherlock admitted, pulling the sheet tighter around himself. “But it does ease the tension the builds up behind your eyes. And it helps you sleep. Bloody stupid John, made me cry and then left me here to deal with it alone.”

“You’re not alone,” Mycroft said impulsively and Sherlock blinked owl-like up at him. He understood the confusion, he was just as puzzled by his own statement as well. “What I mean is- I’m here for you. If you need me.”

“Piss the bloody fuck off, Mycroft,” Sherlock sneered and yes, he had lost that privilege, hadn’t he? But Mycroft was nothing if not a stubborn man and so he merely hoisted himself further into the bed and sat like an immovable stone with his back against the headboard and didn’t say a word.

Somewhere around two am, Sherlock dropped his head in Mycroft’s lap and curled himself up like a broken toy around his brother’s outstretched legs. Mycroft let his hand fall into his brother’s hair and carded through Sherlock curls even after the younger boy had drifted into a restless sleep and Mycroft’s legs had turned numb.

                                                                                                                 

* * *

He now knew exactly what people meant when they said it was the perfect day for a funeral. The ground was cold and wet and distinctly _English_. Cynthia stumbled out of the car, looking thin and gaunt in a shift black dress, her blonde hair up in a loose ponytail.

“Sherlock, love,” she called out gently as she struggled to keep her ground in the mud. “I’m practically your mother-in-law; come help an old woman.”

“Nonsense, Cynthia,” Sherlock brushed off, rushing to take her arm. “You’re barely a day over twenty.”

She smiled softly at him and he held her an inch too close, leading her to the grave. The whole family had joined in on operation “Distract Sherlock,” and Cynthia was winning. He should hire the woman full-time.

He felt a slight pressure on his right side as Harry took his arm and squeezed. “You can get through this,” she encouraged in a whisper and he practically melted into her. She’d been a godsend the past week. She seemed to know exactly what needed to be done when, probably because she had done it all before.

He focused on the feel of her hands on his arm as someone, his Aunt Helen he thought, said a few words. Both sons had been asked to speak and both had declined, one more politely than the other. So it had fallen to his mother’s sister. Somebody let out a sob, the graveyard was quite full with Victoria’s “friends,” and then the coffin was lowered into the earth and soil was dropped back on top of it.

Mycroft held his palmful for longer than he should’ve until Harry rested her hand on his back and he finally threw it down into the hole. Aunt Helen came over to hug him and he let her for one minute before he resisted, shirking back to Harry’s side.

“Dear god, spare me the horror of greeting all the guests,” he moaned softly into Harry’s ear as the mourners mingled amongst each other, whispering in black.

“You don’t have to,” Harry promised. “If you don’t, no one will blame you. I certainly didn’t.”

Mycroft was just finishing up his internal debate on the topic when Harry nudged him. “Who’s that man talking to Sherlock?” she asked quizzically.

Mycroft looked up and swore. “That’s our father,” he confessed and Harry stared, wide-eyed, at the man. It shouldn’t have been hard to spot, the man was a near carbon-copy of Mycroft. Tall and easy to put on weight, their father looked like a severe governess trapped in the body of a cheerful older man.

“I need to deal with this,” he excused, squeezing her arm for a moment before letting go and striding across the hard grass to where Sherlock stood, looking distinctly uncomfortable.

“Hello Father,” he called over politely as soon as he was within speaking range. The man looked up, surprised. Suddenly Mycroft was twelve years old and standing on the Holmes’ manor steps, watching a car pull away. “How are you?”

If Sherlock was surprised he wasn’t kicking their father out, he hid it well. “Father was just telling me I got taller,” he remarked coldly, hand twitching almost imperceptibly by his side. Naturally, both men noticed it.

“One does tend to grow a few millimeters from age seven to nineteen,” Mycroft agreed, just as dispassionate. They both knew they couldn’t spook their father, the man made a living from bargaining trades with dictators and monarchs. But that didn’t mean they had to hold each other’s hands and sob.

Besides, it felt _nice_ to be united with Sherlock on something.

“I hear you’re doing great things with the ministry, Mycroft,” their father remarked, nodding in his direction. “Makes a father proud.”

“Thank you,” Mycroft said at the same time that Sherlock scowled out, “I rather thought one had to earn that title.”

Their father stared at them both, visibly halting before going on. He didn’t try a smile; all three men were far too intelligent for that.

“You’re dating someone, Sherlock?” he noted, interested. “I see from your-“

“Yes yes, we learned the art of deduction from you, no need to show off,” Sherlock waved away and Mycroft was suddenly elated their father had come. Sherlock was in desperate need of a punching bag. “And yes I am, actually.”

“Oh wonderful-“

“His name is John.”

There was a defiant lilt to Sherlock voice as he said it and his jaw twitched, as though daring his father to react. Mycroft personally steeled himself, prepared but not anxious to deck the elder Holmes if things got tetchy. But their father only swallowed imperceptibly and nodded.

“Well, that’s good then,” he said, not a hint of weakness in his voice but they both saw more.

“He’d be here but he’s an army doctor,” Sherlock said and you’d have to be deaf not to realize he was bragging. “He’s on tour in Afghanistan.”

“Well that’s- well done then,” their father nodded, stuffing his hands in his pockets. “I really…I should really go. I came to wish my condolences for you both. If there’s anything you need-“

“We won’t hesitate to ask somebody else for help,” Mycroft finished, gently placing his hands on his brother’s arm. Sherlock, surprisingly, did not shrug him off but rather let him hover there, leading them both away. “Thank you so much for coming.”

As soon as they were out of earshot, Sherlock sagged against him. “How dare he come here-“

“Hush,” Mycroft advised, holding him closer as they parted the black-clad mourners like Moses at the sea. “The man may be an ass but we do owe him for our existence-“ he stopped short at the sight of the next mourner in front of them.

“Hullo,” Greg Lestrade said nervously.

Mycroft’s brain derailed for an actual whole second before struggling back on track. “Detective Inspector,” he greeted in what he hoped wasn’t a faint voice.

Sherlock looked interestedly between them, like a boy watching a movie or the beginnings of a fight. “I heard through Sherlock,” Greg excused, obviously uncomfortable. “I came to wish you my condolences, I’m sorry if this was insensitive-“

“No, no,” Mycroft cut him off weakly. “No, thank you. We greatly appreciate it.”

Greg cast his eyes around, desperately ill-fitted. “How are you?” he asked hesitantly. “I haven’t seen you around; I was in your office last week and they’d said you’d moved.”

“I was transferred to the branch in Edinburgh,” Mycroft explained and Sherlock opened his mouth to add his two cents. “It was good to see you, Detective Inspector but we must be going,” he said, desperate to keep his brother quiet.

“Of course,” Greg nodded, still looking near tortured. “My condolences on your loss. Sherlock,” he nodded in the boy’s direction and Sherlock moved to reply when Mycroft yanked him away effortlessly, leading them back to the Watsons.

“Spoilsport,” Sherlock moped. “Deny me all my fun in life, you oaf.”

Mycroft didn’t answer. But he noticed Sherlock did not let go of his arm for the rest of the service.

                                                                                                                             . . .

Cynthia bustled around the flat, baking what seemed like an army of biscuits.

“How many people are coming for this will reading exactly?” Harry joked, wandering into the kitchen in shorts with wet hair.

“Never you mind,” Cynthia chided, slapping Harry’s hand away from the pile of baked goods. “And go get dressed. They’re going to be here at ten.”

“It’s barely past seven!” Harry sulked but she wandered back into the living room anyway to find some clothes.

Mycroft smirked behind his newspaper from where he sat at the kitchen table. But Cynthia Watson must have possessed the ears of a bat because she turned on him, waving a rolling pin in his direction.

“And none of that from you either,” she scolded and Mycroft schooled his face back into neutrality. Cynthia put the rolling pin down and looked back hesitantly in his direction. “Are you sure it’s alright for me and Harry to be here for this?”

“Cynthia,” Mycroft assured her, standing up to rest a hand on her shoulder. “No one belongs here more than you. You have been nothing short of instrumental in keeping us all sane through this.”

The petite blonde reached up on tiptoe to kiss his cheek, cupping his face with one, floury hand. “I look at you boys like my children,” she confessed, coming back down. “Sherlock’s nearly my son and you’re my daughter’s best friend. And what’s a mother to do but take care of whomever she can.”

“You can make me tea!” Sherlock called out, coming out of the bathroom in a towel.

“Impertinent boys can make their own tea,” Cynthia retorted but she bustled off to plug in the kettle anyway. Sherlock came close enough for her to kiss his cheek too and then hurried himself back to his room to get dressed.

It seemed nearly impossible that just yesterday they’d set their mother in the ground and today they were smiling in the kitchen. Cynthia Watson was a force to be reckoned with, it seemed. Mycroft had a list, a very short one but a list nevertheless, of people he would make life very easy for once he had enough power. Cynthia Watson now headed that list.

She made sure every mouth in the house had eaten a little breakfast, and saw them all dressed smartly ten minutes before the lawyers were set to arrive. Cynthia also had very queer ideas on morale, which was how Mycroft found himself holding hands with Harry and Cynthia in the kitchen, a circle completed by Sherlock, as they wait for the Vernet relatives to arrive.  

“You boys have been so brave,” she whispered softly, squeezing Mycroft’s hand on her right and Sherlock’s on her left. “If you need an out, I’ll be in the kitchen the whole time. Just say you’re going to help me serve drinks, alright?” she tried a watery grin, winking at them.

Sherlock submitted to a hug and then the doorbell rang. Within fifteen minutes, the very punctual Vernets were settled around a dining room table Mycroft had lugged out of a storage cupboard and set up in their living room. Mr. Heckler headed the table and he opened his briefcase slowly, every person balanced on the edge of a pin.

Cynthia and Harry came in twice, almost imperceptibly, to set down biscuits and offer everyone tea and water. Mycroft was 98% sure most of his relatives thought the two blondes were actual servants. As soon as the briefcase had come out, they scuttled off to hide in the kitchen. Mycroft wanted to tell them they had every right to stay, but he kept silent.

“Victoria Holmes’ will is quite short,” Mr. Heckler informed the small gathering of relatives. “So this will not take long.” He lifted a few sheets of paper from the case, pausing only to slip on his glasses before reading.

“I, Victoria Holmes née Vernet, being of sound mind and body, do write my living will. To my sister Helen, and her husband Tom, I leave a sum of assets and funds totaling one hundred thousand pounds.”

There was a short intake of breath and Aunt Helen seemed trying to hide a grin. Mycroft fully understood why Sherlock referred to her as “the troll.”

“To my Aunt Muriel, my cousin Sabrina, my second cousin Leslie and my third cousin George,” continued Mr. Heckler, unfazed, “I leave a sum of assets and funds totaling fifty thousand pounds to be split four ways between them.”

The four distant relatives, whom Mycroft had seen perhaps twice in his whole life, seemed far too happy with their gifts. Mycroft tried desperately not to bristle.

“To my eldest son, Mycroft,” Mr. Heckler started and Mycroft felt his heart clench, just hearing himself mentioned in his mother’s writings, “I leave my Mercury and a trust fund totaling five hundred thousand pounds to be available to him on his twenty-first birthday.” Mr. Heckler looked up and met Mycroft’s eye.

“The will was written a few years ago; you have complete access to it now,” he informed the elder boy and Mycroft nodded, trying to ignore the stares from his relatives as they struggled to calculate just how much Victoria Holmes had been worth her whole life.

“To my youngest, Sherlock, I leave my Lexus and a trust fund totaling five hundred thousand pounds to be available to him on his twenty-first birthday,”  Mr. Heckler said and met Sherlock’s eye across the table. “We will speak about how you can access it later,” he said, speaking in his own voice, and Sherlock nodded as well.

Mr. Heckler took a small breath before concluding. “My flat in London will be split between my two sons who will both have equal shares of it.” He looked up once more to say, “We can speak about selling shares later if you’d like-“

“It’s fine,” Mycroft interjected. “Sherlock can use it now while I’m away. We can worry about that later.”

The lawyer nodded. “As for the remainder of my assets, they will be split equally between the following charities,’ and she leaves a list,” Mr. Heckler veered off, setting the papers down. “Now I’m sure some of you have questions-“

“What about the country house?” someone, his Uncle Tom it appeared, spoke up.

Mr. Heckler looked back at his briefcase. “Oh forgive me, that was a more recent addendum,” he excused, picking up a sheet of paper and reading. “My estate near Chesterfield I leave, with all of its furniture, fixings, acres of land and belongings, to Cynthia Watson.”

There was the sound of breaking glass from the kitchen as one of the Watson’s dropped something. The silence in the room was so thick, it was nearly suffocating.

“I’m sorry, who?” Uncle Tom ground out, looking as though he was ready to strangle someone.

“We’ve never heard of this woman,” his cousin Sabrina spoke up. “Surely it must be some mistake.”

“No mistake,” Mr. Heckler replied, closing his briefcase with a snap. “Now if you’ll excuse me,” he brushed past the boiling Vernets, pausing only to murmur to Mycroft, “We’ll be in touch,” before exiting the flat.

“Who the bloody hell is this Watson woman?” Tom hissed. “Did Victoria get herself a whore in the last few years?”

“Don’t. You. Dare.” Sherlock stood like an archangel, staring at his Uncle with venom. “Get out.” When no one moved he looked ready to spit fire. “Out!” he roared and the relatives scrambled for the door.

“You will hear from our lawyers,” Tom sneered as they exited. Mycroft merely stared defiantly back at him. Once the door had shut with a resounding snap, he and Sherlock moved as one towards the kitchen, not even pausing to lock the front door.

They found Cynthia Watson sitting on a chair by the stove openly sobbing, a broken plate by her feet. Harry stood behind her, rubbing her back, but both women looked up as the boys entered.

“Oh Mycroft, Sherlock, I had no idea,” she whimpered, looking up at Mycroft. “I’ll give it back, I just-“

“Nonsense,” Mycroft cut her off, pausing to kneel by her- carefully avoiding the broken glass. “It is yours. We both want you to have it,” he said, meeting Sherlock’s eye over her head just to check they really did agree. The younger Holmes shot him a _don’t be daft_ look and he went back to focusing on Cynthia.

“I really couldn’t,” she blubbered, a wet mess, and Sherlock cautiously handed her a tissue.

“Weren’t you just saying how you were ready to retire and get out of London, Mum?” Harry encouraged, rubbing circles on her back. “This will be good for you.”

Cynthia Watson looked up at the two Holmes boys, her face still wet. “You both have to know your mother was the kindest woman that ever lived,” she disclosed softly, like a great secret, as she dried her eyes. “When my husband…died, none of my other friends would have anything to do with me. I was so alone and lost and she just-,” here she broke off to bite back a whimper and Mycroft kindly averted his eyes. “I never even called your mother- she called me. Suggested that I take my children up north for a summer- like she didn’t know I was struggling to keep us all from falling apart. She took such good care of me-“

She paused, choking on what looked like a sob, and even Sherlock looked ready to give crying another try. “Even now she’s taking care of me. Even now-“ and then she broke down again. Harry bent in to hug her and Sherlock let her grasp his hand, biting his own lip like he was guarding a secret.

But Mycroft withdrew, uncomfortable and unwelcome. _Caring is not an advantage_ he reminded himself as he booked a return ticket on his phone. _Caring is not a fucking advantage._

He tried not to notice as the phone grew wet and slippery beneath his fingers.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Where do I even go between chapters? This is an excellent question, when you come up with an answer- let me know.

“Come home,” Harry murmured into the phone. He could deduce how she must have been sitting just from her voice, curled up in the corner of her sofa, knees against her chest. “John’s coming back on leave in three days.”

“Harry, fond as I am of your brother, I doubt I am who he wants to see after being deprived of my own brother for seven months,” Mycroft chided, but his voice was soft too. He was sitting in the second bedroom of his flat that he’d converted into an office, nose to nose with a pile of paperwork. The clock next to him flashed 23:30 in bright, red numbers and he groaned internally. He was too tired for this.

“So then come home for me,” she wheedled, and Mycroft suspected Clara was not home. “I miss you.”

“Won’t you be busy with John?” he teased, but it was delivered too gently to be mean-spirited.

Harry sighed. “He comes home for a week after seven months and all I get is a long lunch. Too busy shagging your idiot of a brother-“

“I do not need to hear this, Harriet,” Mycroft protested and Harry laughed out loud.

There was a beat of silence before harry spoke up again. “I’m worried about Sherlock,” she admitted quietly. “This is the first time the boys are seeing each other since your mom passed and I’m scared it might get too…intense for him. You’re a good distraction.”

“An easy fight to pick, you mean,” he corrected but he knew what she was driving at. “Alright. I’ll take a few days off. They’ve been practically begging me to use my vacation days.”

“I have some stuff to talk to you about,” Harry confessed in a rush. “Stop! No, don’t deduce it. Let me surprise you for once in my life,” she begged. “We’ll get coffee.”

Mycroft smiled as he figured out what she needed to talk to him about. “Sounds brilliant.”

                                                                                                                                                         . . . 

He got off the plane in Heathrow airport in desperate need of a shower and a bed. He drove to the flat with the sole intention of lying down and sleeping for as long as it took to feel like a normal human male again.

What he found instead were his brother and John having sex on the couch, in perfect view of the front door.

 _I could have lived my whole life without seeing this_ Mycroft thought regretfully as both boys looked up at him through flushed faces. But he had a role to play and that role required him saying, “For goodness sakes, Sherlock, that sofa is from Italy.”

“What on earth are you doing here?” his brother snarled and Mycroft felt a deep pity for his bed (couch rather) partner. John looked like he was wishing he had bothered learning teleportation.

John looked good too, more muscular and rough, his face sharper. “Did you forget I own this flat too?” Mycroft tried in an effort to distract himself from the other fact about John, which was that his poor body was currently serving as a sheath for, well… Mycroft hadn’t needed his eyes anyway.

“You knew John was coming home, what did you think we’d be doing?” Sherlock cried, impervious to his brother’s thoughts on just how painful bleaching one’s eyes might actually be.

“I forgot,” he excused. Well, he’d forgotten the pair of them enjoyed shagging like rabbits on every available surface when given the chance. And the two were close enough. God, he needed tea.

 He stalked off to the kitchen, trying to fix himself a drink and escape the very naked men on his couch in equal measures. Sherlock took this as a forfeit. “You liar, you have an eidetic memory!” his brother yelled after him. “And where are you going? You can’t just make yourself tea, we’re busy!”

“I’ve just come from Edinburgh; I dare say I deserve tea,” he shot back, reaching out to flip on the kettle. He was suddenly painfully reminded that this was not the first time he’d retreated to his kitchen to escape a handsy couple on his couch.

Sherlock refused to be calmed. “You bloody, insufferable, twisted, perverted old man,” he ranted, coming into the kitchen, naked at the day he was born, and Mycroft tried to concentrate on his tea. “Leave.”

“I’m meeting Harry at four,” he informed the boy. Sherlock had his hands on his hips, not even pretending to be ashamed of his nudity. Prat. “But I’ll be sleeping here.”

“If you think we’re going to be quiet about our sex,” Sherlock threatened and Mycroft reconsidered.

“I think Harry’s apartment has a spare room,” he offered, a compromise, and Sherlock took it with a self-satisfied smirk.

“Make me some tea while you’re there,” he demanded before turning to follow John to the bathroom. As soon as the door closed, Mycroft sighed and let himself collapse against the counter. God, it was exhausting being someone’s stabilizer.

He really did have to meet Harry at four, but that meant he got two free hours of watching his baby brother eat with his boyfriend, feeding each other small bits of fruit and letting their hands play under the hems of each other’s shirts and letting their foreheads bump against each other, noses rubbing like it was second nature, wrapping themselves around each other so tightly it was nearly clothed pornography.

A stab of something went through him, _yes fuck, that’s jealousy right there_ at the sight of two people so hideously in love. He hadn’t felt something remotely akin to that in over three years and while he didn’t begrudge the formerly tortured boy anything, he couldn’t help but wonder if he had ever had a chance at something like this.

He left just as they were making plans to visit Victoria’s grave and headed down to the café he and Harry used to have their weekly lunches in. Harry was already nursing a tea when he got there and she stood to hug him tightly to her, bone to bone.

“God, it’s so good to see you,” she smiled into his shoulder as he hugged her back. “I missed you terribly.”

“I missed you too,” he admitted, not as shaming as he’d once thought it would be, and they sat down. He ordered a coffee and then smiled at the blonde. “Okay, what’s your news?” he prompted and Harry swatted him.

“Like you don’t already know,” she chided. “You deduced it the second you got off the phone with me.”

“Naturally,” he didn’t bother lying. “But tell me anyway, I know you want to say it out loud.”

Harry beamed back at him. “I’m going to ask Clara to marry me,” she breathed out and Mycroft did his best to smile his most genuine smile.

“She’ll say yes,” he promised and Harry grasped at his hand.

“You sure?” she checked. “I mean, obviously I wouldn’t ask her if I wasn’t 98% sure she’d say yes but it’s nice to get it confirmed by a genius.”

Mycroft laughed. “Yes, she will. And you didn’t need a genius to confirm that; anyone with eyes can see the way she looks at you.”

Harry blushed. “How does she look at me?” she asked, a soft thing.

“Like she needs you to breathe,” he supplied and she looked ready to propose right there.

The waiter came with Mycroft’s coffee and there were a few minutes of perfectly comfortable silence as each drank their drink and made unloaded eye contact. When Mycroft was halfway through his cup, Harry spoke up again.

“I have another question to ask you,” she teased. “And this one I knew you would never deduce, so I get the added privilege of surprising you!”

Mycroft lifted an eyebrow. “Oh? Go on,” he prompted and Harry crossed her hands in front of her, staring back at him with unblinking determination.

“Mycroft Holmes, will you do me the compliment of being my maid of honor?”

Mycroft felt his jaw go slack. Every witty response he’d lined up fled his head like rats off a sinking ship and he was left staring flabbergasted at her.

Harry seemed to backpedaled. “I mean, we can change the title if you want. We don’t have to call it maid of honor if you’re afraid your manhood is at stake-“

“No no,” he coughed, cutting her off. “It’s fine, it’s all fine, I’d-“ he swallowed carefully. “I’d love to be your maid of honor.”

Harry’s grin nearly split her face. “Perfect, because I had no backup plan,” she confessed and Mycroft laughed. “It was you or no one. Clara won’t want one, she hates picking between her friends, and you’re the only person I’d trust with my wedding.”

Mycroft willed himself not to flush. “Thank you,” he whispered, a little hoarse, and Harry twinkled at him. He fidgeted nervously. “What is it I have to do?”

“Nothing really,” Harry promised. “You can help us plan if you’d like, only because you’re so good at that. You plan the bachelorette party, but you’d be planning it for a lesbian with a sober companion so nothing really crazy. And you keep me from freaking out at the wedding.”

Mycroft smiled. “Plenty of experience with that,” he joked and Harry giggled. “I’m honored Harry, really.”

“She hasn’t said yes yet,” Harry brushed off. “I’m choosing a maid of honor before I have a bride.”

“A mere formality,” Mycroft promised and then waved the waiter over. “Give us your best cheesecake. She’s getting engaged.”

“Congratulations!” the waiter grinned and Harry flushed. She reached out to squeeze Mycroft’s hand as the man left.

“I love you,” she smiled and Mycroft smiled back, trying to ignore the same sharp pain in his chest that seemed to beat as his heart no matter what he did.

 

* * *

 

Harry proposed to Clara two weeks later and Mycroft suddenly found himself planning a wedding.

He was helping pick flowers and taste cakes and look at dresses and soon he could only think in color schemes and obscure flavors.

Two weeks before the wedding, Mycroft drove down to London to help finish with the hall and chat with two caterers. The bachelorette party idea hadn’t made it far off the ground before both brides realized it would defeat the purpose if they had a bachelorette party together. So Mycroft’s duties had thankfully shrunk to a less drunk size.

There was a caterer in Brixton they seemed to be getting on well with and Mycroft was standing in his store now, going over last minute decisions about fish and chicken. The man had just ducked into the back to look for some different sample menus when the door chimed and a surprised voice said, “Mycroft?”

Mycroft spun around and found himself face to face with Greg Lestrade. The man looked good, better than Mycroft had remembered, and he’d gained gray hair in the seven months since Mycroft had last seen him. He was in jeans that fit him well and a loose long-sleeved shirt that Mycroft suddenly recognized with a keen ache from when it had hung over the back of his bedroom chair.

“Inspector Lestrade, good to see you,” Mycroft acknowledged, his mouth working on autopilot, and Greg flushed.

“Please, call me Greg,” he insisted, palpably uncomfortable, and Mycroft took pity. “What are you doing here?” he asked.

Mycroft looked around, having momentarily forgotten where he was. “Yes, right I’m ah, helping to plan a wedding. Harry’s getting married. You remember her, yes?”

Greg thought a minute. “Was she the blonde snogging her girlfriend on our couch that one time?” he tried and Mycroft nodded, a faint smile flitting across his face. “They’re getting married?”

“At long last,” Mycroft nodded. “They’re by the florist now. I’m trying to help out by confirming everything with the caterer. And you?”

“Oh, the manager is a friend of mine,” he shrugged, hands in his trouser pockets. “He left his phone by my flat; I’m returning it.”

“Oh,” Mycroft replied, for lack of a better response and Greg shifted on the balls of his feet, casting around for something to say.

“You look well,” the inspector offered and Mycroft took it.

“Thank you, you as well,” he acknowledged and Greg colored.

“Thanks,” he answered and both were spared by the manager coming back out and crying “Greg!” The two hugged for a second before Greg handed him a mobile and the man clapped the inspector on the back. They spoke for a minute and then Greg turned to leave. But he stopped and spun back around, walking over to Mycroft.

“Hey, are you almost done here?” Greg asked and Mycroft eyed him carefully for a moment.

“Yeah, just about,” he said and Greg looked so nervous, Mycroft wanted suddenly to hug him.

“This is gonna sound weird but maybe, would you wanna get coffee or something?” he asked cautiously and Mycroft struggled to maintain a neutral expression. “There’s just this case that’s giving us trouble and I was hoping I could run it by you, see if you have any thoughts.”

If you had told Mycroft he would be accepting an offer for coffee from his ex today, he would’ve laughed. But now he only nodded. Greg looked relieved and Mycroft found himself rushing to finish, promising to come back before walking out of the shop with Greg Lestrade.

They walked in silence to a coffee shop on the corner and Greg didn’t say a word until he’d bought Mycroft a cup of godawful coffee. “I’m really sorry to bother you,” the inspector excused. “It’s just, we’re all kind of at the ends of our ropes and Sherlock’s been running around with some boy named Victor-“

“It’s not a problem,” Mycroft promised and Greg flashed him a small smile, one of the smiles that used to make Mycroft want to do anything for him. It still did but it felt wrong somehow, seeing it out in a rundown shop in Brixton as opposed to underneath his sheets in the small hours of the morning. God, it’d been nearly four years. It was not supposed to still be this hard.  

Greg laid out the case like a professional, including seemingly insignificant details and paraphrasing witness statements. Mycroft listened carefully, drawing it out in his mind, and before long his coffee had gone cold and he knew exactly what had happened that night two weeks ago.

“She has a twin,” he explained and Greg waited for him to explain. “That’s why the fingerprints don’t match up. It sounds implausible, I know, but you haven’t interviewed any family members. Find the twin. If anything, she’s living not too far from her sister. They’ve been pulling fraud like this for years, that’s how they’ve been getting away with it. It went wrong this time, now you’ve caught wind and the twin is in hiding. It’s the only solution left, however improbable. “

Greg watched him with incredulous eyes. “You’re incredible,” he whispered and Mycroft watched him catch himself, watched him regret the statement. “I mean-“

“It’s fine,” Mycroft reassured and then stood, because there was only so much masochism he could subject himself to in a morning. “I hope it helped but I really do need to go.”

“Of course, of course,” Greg brushed off and even though Mycroft knew he was imagining the regretful look on Greg’s face, it didn’t make it hurt less. “I’ll walk you to your car.”

It was the same car Greg had driven him to the hospital in, the same car he’d cried about Sherlock in, the same car they’d kissed and kissed and kissed until they’d nearly had sex in the backseat in and Greg found it before Mycroft did.

“Thanks again for your help,” he said as Mycroft opened the driver’s door. “See you around?”

Absolutely not. “Of course,” Mycroft smiled, ducking inside.

“Give Harry my congratulations,” he offered and Mycroft nodded before turning the key and driving off, ordering himself not to watch Greg recede in the rearview mirror. He failed. The inspector watched him drive away and it was almost as though they were making eye contact until Mycroft turned a corner and he was gone.

 

* * *

 

Harry panicked before the wedding. If she hadn’t, Mycroft would have been concerned.

“Where are the Millers sitting?” she ranted, pacing the small four walls of the cabin that bordered on the wedding lawn. The brides had decided to get married outside, underneath large white tents, but Harry and Clara had taken refuge in separate cabins on either side of the lawn.

“Where are they sitting? Because if the Joneses come, they hate each other. They can’t be near each other. And are John and Sherlock sitting together? Is Sherlock at the same table with my mother? Is he at the same table as Clara’s mother? God in heaven, what if he finds Clara’s mother-“

“Harry,” Mycroft said firmly, grasping her by the shoulders. “Breathe.”

“Am I making a mistake, Myc?” she whispered, eyes wet, and Mycroft knew this had nothing to do with the Millers.

“No,” he promised, cupping her cheek. “You are exactly where you are supposed to be.”

Harry took a deep breath, leaning into his touch. “I love her so much, Mycroft,” she confessed, clutching the edges of her top. She’d worn a sleeveless white pantsuit, an elegant thing that made her look skinny and tall, her bare arms shaking in the late afternoon light. “I don’t deserve her.”

“You overcame an addiction for this woman,” Mycroft reminded her, holding her steady. “You deserve each other.”

She blinked slowly and then a knock came on the cabin door, a bridesmaid informing them they had five minutes. “You are my rock, Mycroft,” she smiled lightly. “I’d be lost without you.”

“I love you,” Mycroft said and both parties froze. He hadn’t intended to say it. He’d meant to breath, to blink perhaps, and it’d just slipped out like it was natural. Like it was something he said all the time.

“Oh Mycroft,” Harry cried out softly, eyes threatening to spill. “Oh.”

“Yes, yes, I am capable of sentiment,” he flushed, turning her around bodily. “Now come on. We have a wedding to attend.

Harry spun herself back around in his arms and hugged him, kissing his cheek quickly. “I knew if I stuck around you’d say it back one day,” she giggled and then she was pulling him out of the cabin so she could find her mother and John to walk her down the aisle.

The wedding was beautiful. Everyone kept saying it and it was true. The brides kissed under a setting sun, he’d remembered to hand them their rings in time, and then everyone was settling down to eat in thirty minutes the menu he’d spent six weeks planning.

He’d put himself at a table in the back of the tent, with people he never met before and who were staunchly ignoring him in favor of each other. John and Sherlock were at a different table, practically making sex eyes at each other, but before he could retch, Harry stood and tapped her knife against her glass.

“If I could have a moment,” she called out, every head in the tent turning towards her. Clara looked up at her, eyes warm and adoring. “Normally, the best man makes a speech about now, but we didn’t have one and my maid of honor staunchly refused,” she laughed, shooting daggers at him, and Mycroft smiled back at her, trying to hide it behind a napkin.

Harry smiled back and went on. “So if you would all permit, I’d like to say a few words.” It was almost painful to watch her thank her mother and brother, Clara’s parents, Clara’s darling little sister, and watch them all smile back at her. The Harry Watson he’d met five years ago on a hot day in July had been a girl slated for disaster and heartache. The Harry Watson he was watching now was a woman who’d been given everything she’d ever wanted, and was about to live happily ever after.

She suddenly turned to the back and held out her hand towards him. Mycroft felt every eye in the room shift to him as Harry began speaking, a slight quiver in her voice. “I would like to thank that beautiful man in the back of the tent,” she said, and dear lord she was _crying_. “Mycroft Holmes, my best friend in this whole world.

“If it was not for that man, I have no doubt I would be very drunk and very unhappy in the cesspools of London. And instead,” she paused to smile down at her blushing bride, squeezing her hand, “I am six years sober, and never going back.”

She stopped to wipe at her face and god, why is Mycroft’s face so hot? He reached out blindly for a napkin and was shocked to realize he was crying. God, he was crying. This sentiment nonsense, it chewed you up and spit you out and made you into something fragile and cliché. Someone that would cry at a wedding speech. God, he had never been happier in his life. 

The room was laughing, probably at a joke the bride made, but Mycroft could not care less. He was reminded vividly of a Mycroft of only seven years old, getting knocked down by a larger boy at primary. Back then he wouldn’t have even known how to imagine having a best friend so integral to his life they’d make each other cry at a wedding.

The brides had moved on the kissing gently, the band was playing, and his brother was dancing so salaciously with John, it was a surprise mothers weren’t covering their children’s eyes. Sherlock caught John in a dip so low some of the onlookers gasped and as soon as the song ended, they were rushing out of the tent and towards one of the cabins. Tedious.

He spent the wedding making meaningless small-talk, watching Harry blush and laugh and giggle with her wife, and trying to resist strangling his brother and partner. As soon as the happy couple absconded in a car to the airport, he shared a cab with the two idiots back to the London flat.

He was staying in his old room, John sharing Sherlock’s room, and he had only just shed his tux and put on something resembling pyjamas when the noises from the room next door quickly turned sexual. He considered reading and then gave up on it as soon as Sherlock’s chorus of “Fuck, John, fuck yes, god jesus, just like that,” became significantly louder than audible.

With a weary sigh, he slipped on some shoes and padded out of the flat, briefly reminded of their stay at the waterpark. At least then he’d had Harry to take his walk with, but she was probably engaged in a dirty litany of curses of her own right then. So he walked out alone.

His flat wasn’t far from Grosvenor Square Garden and so he wandered out there, vaguely aware it was past two am and he was wearing nothing more than a long-sleeved tee-shirt and flannel pyjama bottoms. He might have looked homeless. Thank god it was late spring and warm outside, even so early in the morning. He walked around for a bit until he found a bench that didn’t look peed upon and settled down to watch the sunrise.

There was something about London, something humming and alive and brilliant, even half-asleep as it was- and Mycroft hadn’t let himself realize how much he missed it, _her_ , until this very moment. He fished his mobile out of his trouser pocket and dialed a number, unsurprised when it went to voicemail.

“Hello Sir, this is Mycroft,” he said elegantly, in the tones he perfected for his job. “I’ve put some thought in to your offer and I’ve decided to accept. I would be honored to take over a senior manager in London. Let me know if there are any arrangements I must make outside of moving. Thank you for this opportunity, good day.”

He hung up the phone with a sigh and watched the sun rise like a ball of angry red fire over his city. He was coming home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my goodness, next chapter. You guys don't know what's going to happen but I do and zomygoodness I have been looking forward to next chapter for forever. Like forever. Prepare yourself mentally. And possibly physically, I don't know, things are gonna get crazy in here.


	14. Chapter 14

Six months later

“Mycroft, you are exhausted,” Harry pronounced. She was perched on the edge of Mycroft’s gloriously large desk, glaring at the mounds of paperwork surrounding the man.

Mycroft brushed her off and she moved to sit in one of the padded chairs by his desk. “It’s nothing I can’t handle,” he promised, turning to yet another crisis.

That’s all he seemed to get these days, crisises. With the move had come a bigger office, nearly private with proper lackeys and everything, but also more work. Mycroft hadn’t minded. He loved the work, or at least he needed the work. It kept his mind off…other things.

“Yes well, I have my doubts,” Harry objected. “You’re falling apart, Myc. And don’t give me that look,” she chided, as Mycroft glared. “You hide it well. But I am your oldest friend and I can tell you what the rest of your fearful little interns won’t. You’re going gray before you’re thirty.”

“Meanwhile, you’re positively glowing,” Mycroft tried changing the subject. Harry had come back from her honeymoon with an almond tan that had yet to fade and blonde locks that rested just below her shoulder blades. She looked, well she looked deliciously _happy_.

“It’s called sex, Mycroft,” she teased, smiling lavishly as she crossed her legs. “Lots and lots and _lots_ of mind-bending, back-arching, newlywed sex. You should try some.”

“Now you want me to get married?” Mycroft joked back, one eyebrow raised, as he set aside Morocco for another day.

Harry leaned over to smack his arm. “I want you to go out. Pick up a guy, take him home, shag his brains out. Hey, if that’s not your style anymore- get one of your lackeys to pick up a guy for you and shag him in your car. Whatever floats your boat. But for god’s sake Myc, you’ve become a monk.”

Mycroft glared at her. “I’ve found better things to occupy myself with,” he responded curtly.

“I can see that,” Harry sighed. “Like-“ she started, picking up a file, and Mycroft snatched it back quickly before she could open it.

“Harry-“ he warned and she waved him away.

“Yeah, yeah, classified, sorry,” she acknowledged, sinking down in the chair. “Seriously Mycroft, it’s what? Eight thirty at night and I could be home shagging my brilliant wife. But I am here, watching you scribble away in an empty office building, because you promised me dinner.”

Mycroft sighed. “I know Harry, I’m sorry,” he said softly. “It’s just, things exploded and I’m-“

“The guy in charge,” Harry nodded. “So it’s your mess.”

Mycroft nodded back, a sad gesture, and Harry took off her heels with a sigh, swinging her legs over the arm of the chair.

“What I don’t get is why you have to do this alone,” she noted, rolling up her sleeves. “Why don’t you have an assistant? Or like a PA?”

Mycroft signed the form he’d just scanned. “Because all these dossiers are classified,” he explained. “Everything in this office is classified! It took me what, four years, to get clearance to handle this information, and that’s me. Anyone with the classification to read this or help with it is either my boss, or me.”

“It just doesn’t seem fair,” Harry complained for him. “And you’re stuck with all the grunt work.”

Mycroft shrugged. “Needs must,” he exhaled and closed the file, moving it to open the next one.

“Yeah well what about the needs of the hungry?” Harry complained, leaning back. “I even showered this morning. For you.”

“And I am honored,” Mycroft chuckled, shifting files. He must have shifted one too fast, or too far, because suddenly there was an avalanche at the end of this desk and papers went everywhere.

“Shit!” he cursed, running over, and Harry was already on her knees, picking up files. She handed him a few to set back on the desk and then she froze with her hands on one big file.

“MI5?” she read curiously before Mycroft took it from her. “That’s your department?”

Mycroft shook his head. “Not even close. Those are just the ones retiring this year. I have to clear them for retirement, strike their clearance, the works. It’s a mess.”

But Harry was hardly listening. “Spies have high clearance, don’t they?” she asked carefully.

Mycroft, for one of the first times in his life, was not following. Mostly because he had not predicted where this conversation would go. “Some,” he admitted.

“And these retiring spies with high clearance, some of them must want jobs, no?” she pushed and then Mycroft got it.

He looked at the heavy file again, realizing its potential for the first time. “Harry, you are a genius,” he breathed and she grinned cheekily at him.

“Don’t I know it,” she smirked, swinging her heels. “Now, you wanna buy me dinner or what?”

  * * *

“It says here you’re an expert in Krav Maga, Judo and Mixed Martial Arts,” Mycroft read off from the file, looking up briefly to make eye contact with his interviewee.

The woman in the chair sat with her ankles crossed. She was in a dark, severe suit with a skirt shorter than he’d expected, her brown curls up in some version of a top knot. “They forgot Kung Fu. I learned that more recently though, so not a surprise there,” she filled in, each of her words as clear as a snap of gum.

“Hm,” Mycroft acknowledged, skimming through the file he’d already read cover to cover. “Your supervisors’ remarks are excellent, wonderful points. You put down experience with office work…”

“I was undercover as the French Ambassador’s secretary in Tripoli for five years,” she explained, her fingers slightly restless on her thigh.

Mycroft did the math. “You were his secretary during the embassy bombings?” he asked and the woman just smiled slowly, like it was some delicious secret. He couldn’t’ help shifting slightly in his seat, her smile was nothing like he’d ever seen before.

“I was a _very_ good secretary,” she said simply, her voice implying the wink she was too professional to make and Mycroft cleared his throat.

“Your CV is incredibly impressive,” he tried.

“I know.”

“From all these reports, it looks like you were a year, maybe two, away from serious promotion,” Mycroft noted, looking up. “So I have to ask, why retire from MI5?”

The woman blinked, a bit caught off guard. “I have to be honest with you,” she started, voice more serious than he’d heard it all interview. “I just woke up one morning and realized I’d like to live to see thirty.”

Mycroft let that sit. “Anything else about you of note?’ he asked.

She let her eyes drift to the corner of the room, thinking deeply for a second. “I won an international texting competition once,” she offered and Mycroft bit back a short laugh, sticking out his hand over the desk.

“I’ll still be conducting interviews but I think it’s safe to say you’re hired Ms-“

“Anthea,” she supplied, standing to shake his hand. “I prefer Anthea.”

 

* * *

 

Living with Sherlock had not gotten any easier during their time apart. They tried to avoid each other as much as possible, mostly. Sherlock got the flat during the day and late evening, and Mycroft had the den to himself after nine pm. Mycroft could remember when he’d been nine, he’d had to lock himself up in the attic to avoid Sherlock and his insistent questions. This seemed worse somehow.

But sometimes, their paths still crossed as on this night when Mycroft strode through the front door to hear the signs of his little brother in the kitchen.

“Did you eat?” he inquired carefully as he locked the front door and hung his coat up. “I haven’t.”

“For the best, really,” Sherlock called back from behind the refrigerator door. “Anorexia may be a disease, but on you brother, it might be an improvement.”

Mycroft sighed. “I’ll just order in then, shall I?” he conceded, wandering towards the landline. Sherlock seemed to scuttle out of his way which would have been lovely if it was not incredibly suspicious.

“You didn’t come home last night,” Mycroft noted, pushing past his brother to fish out a bottle of water. “You stayed in your dorm?”

 Sherlock tensed before utterly relaxing. No one else would have noticed it, but he’d always been the smarter of the two of them. “Victor and I were studying,” Sherlock shrugged, voice perfectly normal, and Mycroft felt his pulse speed up.

“Look at me,” he demanded and his brother stared petulantly ahead, the back of his neck facing his older brother. Mycroft ground his teeth, “I said, _look_ at me, Sherlock. Or I’ll have to touch you.”

 Sherlock turned and Mycroft saw it all, like a flash of lightning. Soft fibers behind the ear and on the back of the neck _comforter_ shifting of the eyes _nervous_ bottom lip raw _guilty habit_ , bruises on the left arm _Sherlock has been hitting himself absently- in the shower-_ “Oh Sherlock,” he breathed out and the boy’s eyes sparked dangerously.

“Don’t lecture me, brother mine,” he hissed. “You, of all people, have no right to lecture me about cheating _-_ “

“How much can you abuse this boy before he snaps?” Mycroft bullied on, ignoring the well-deserved sting. “You dump him and tease him and get strung out and now cheat on him-“

“He left me!” Sherlock bellowed and it was like all the air had gone out of the room. “He left me and I have never-“ he took in a shuddering breath and they were close, too close, Mycroft needed to step back-

“What’s the use trying to explain it to you? You don’t go in for this sort of nonsense,” Sherlock sneered, turning feral. “Friends is a dirty word to you, isn’t it?”

“I have-“ Mycroft bristled, pausing before he said the word ‘Harry,’ but Sherlock’s stare was enough to know they’d both heard it anyway.

“Ah yes, the recovering alcoholic,” Sherlock laid in viciously, a horrific sort of smile gracing his face and Mycroft knew what was coming. “She’s married now, brother, in case you haven’t noticed. She has a wife she goes home to, friends she sees at work. _Everyone_ has other people, even I have some else-“ he paused waiting for it.

“She is all you have, isn’t she?” Sherlock pushed, tone dripping with false pity. “All you have is a married lesbian who’d much rather be with her legal _wife_ than with you. So don’t lecture me about needing someone, Mycroft. We can’t all be so content on so little like you.”

It hadn’t been like this when they’d been kids. Sherlock had been cruel, yes, but not in an intentional way. In the way all children are because they know no better- killing butterflies by trapping them in glasses. This felt like someone had ripped his heart out of his chest and then forgotten to sew it back up, leaving him bloody and open like a broken toy.

Sherlock took his silence as a victory, as he always did. “It was one kiss,” he admitted, managing to sound like he was doing Mycroft a favor rather than confiding in him. “We ‘snogged’ if you’d like, and that was all. I won’t be seeing him again. Now if you’ll excuse me, John is supposed to call in twenty minutes.”

Mycroft knew if he walked out of the kitchen without saying anything, it’d be weak. He’d be admitting defeat, accepting it on himself. He did it anyway. And late, as he heard Sherlock laughing into the kitchen phone with his unsuspecting soldier, he let himself, for one long minute, feel lonely.

 

* * *

 

“Guest for you sir,” Anthea announced, knocking lightly at his office door. “He says he knows you from Uni,” she explained, making a face as though it physically pained her to try and imagine her stodgy boss in something as mundane as University. “We screened him, naturally, no gun or other illegal weapon-”

“Of course he knows me from Uni,” a voice rang out and Mycroft had barely closed two sensitive documents when a tanned man pushed his way past the intern. “Like I’d bring a gun to a meeting with Mikey.”

“Christopher,” Mycroft blinked, managing not to gasp at the visage of Chris Melas in his office doorway- but it was a near thing. “What on earth-“

“I wanted to call you as soon as I landed but my schedule has been impossible,” the Greek boy greeted, nearly beaming at the man behind the desk. “You look good, Mike.”

“Leave us,” Mycroft commanded and Anthea scuttled dutifully, pausing only to look the young man up and down appreciatively before leaving. “Sit, please,” he gestured to Chris, standing up to- what? Pull out a chair like a man on a date?

“Oh god Mycroft, I wish this was a social visit, I really do,” Chris confessed, his eager face suddenly turning dark. The years in between had been good to the man, darkening his already dark skin and giving him a more muscular, more powerful build. “I’ve gone to the police and they don’t believe me; when I thought of you-“

“Breath,” Mycroft commanded and Chris did, smiling weakly at him. Mycroft crossed over to the other side of his desk and sat in the chair next to Chris, turning so they faced each other. “I can get tea, coffee-“

“I don’t know that there’s time for that,” Chris confessed, worrying at his trousers before making eye contact. “Mycroft, I think I was kidnapped.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OMG CASE CASE CASE CASE CASE! Do you have any idea how long I've been planning this? Since I brought Chris in like, months ago. Omg. I cannot even. I made myself lose the ability to even. Gahhhhh.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CASE CASE CASE CASE CASE!   
> This case is stolen directly from The Case Of the Greek Interpreter by Sir Conan Doyle and not at all stolen from the awful blog adaptation of the Case of the Geek Interpreter which we will never speak of.

Chris held the cup steady in his hands as Mycroft poured him some whiskey. “Start at the beginning,” he advised as the Greek man took a shaky sip. “Don’t leave out any detail, however insignificant it may seem to you.”

Chris nodded, letting out a breath. “I got into London two days ago,” he tried, smiling weakly at Mycroft. “I’m here with the Greek ambassador to England. He has some conference thing on Wednesday but until then he’s been touring schools, meeting MPs, the usual. It’s fun work but my nights are my own.”

He set the tumbler down and met Mycroft’s gaze head-on. It was like no time had passed; the two of them sat close as they’d used to- exchanging secrets and deep thoughts. “I told the receptionists at The Montcalm where I’m saying that if any tourists need an interpreter for the night, they can ring up,” he went on. “It’s a few extra dollars and I like my job. But last night, the front desk called up to my room around seven. Said they had a young man at the front desk asking for a Greek Interpreter.

“I came down and this guy, couldn’t have been more than twenty-six, is standing in the lobby. He greets me, says his name is Mr. Latimer and that he has a friend in from Athens who doesn’t speak a word of English. I get in his car, a big fancy thing with a driver and everything, and it’s not till it starts driving that I realize the windows are dark. I can’t see out.”

Here Chris let out a shaky exhale and Mycroft tried his best to keep an encouraging face. “There must have been something in the car cause when I pulled out my mobile, I didn’t have service. Mr. Latimer just smiled at me as I started panicking and then he- he pulled out a gun. Took out it real easy and laid it on the chair next to him.

“He smiled at me and said, ‘So sorry, Mr. Melas. But I’m going to need your full cooperation, you understand?’ I nodded and then he said nothing for the whole drive. Must’ve been over an hour. I had no idea where we were and then the car stopped and he got out. We were in this green field but I can’t tell you if we were in the country or if the house just had a really large lawn. I can’t tell you anything about where we were. I have no idea.”

“It’s alright,” Mycroft promised as Chris seemed to crumble further in the chair. “That’s why you’ve come here. Go on.”

Chris nodded and then grimaced as he struggled to pick up the story. “There was another man waiting by the door; he looked like an older version of Mr, Latimer. I’d bet anything it was his father. They took me inside the house. I didn’t see much of it. There was a suit of armor by the door like it was some sort of castle but that was all that really stood out to me. They led me to this basement, right? And there was this man- god he looked awful. He was skinny and his face was covered in plasters and his eyes were all wide and terrified.

“I sat across the table from him like they told me to and they started making me ask him all these questions about a property and a house and him signing over the deed to some sort of fortune. At first I was just straight translating; they brought the gun down with them and I was terrified. But then I started slipping in tiny questions of my own, on the tail of their questions, and he started answering. I didn’t get a lot out of him, I was so terrified the Latimers would realize what I was doing. But this is what I got.

“He told me his last name was Kratides, and that he was from Athens. He said they were starving him, but before I could ask why, the door burst open and this young woman ran in. She was looking at the younger Latimer and she said ‘Oh Harry, I’m so lonely up by- Is that Paul?’ Mr. Kratides stood up and rushed to her, crying ‘Sophie, Sophie!’ and they hugged so tightly, I’d thought they might hurt each other. Then the older Latimer grabbed Sophie by the waist and pulled her out while the younger one picked back up his gun and motioned for me to walk out of the room. They both start screaming and she was crying but I just went, metal to my back. 

“He drove me back and in the car he turned to me and said, ‘So sorry to cut our little meeting short. Here’s five hundred pounds,’ and he handed me an envelope like it was a normal job. ‘But don’t tell anyone about what you saw,’ he said menacingly as the car stopped. ‘We have ways of knowing if you tell.’ And then the car door opened and I was left standing alone outside the hotel. They drove off so fast, I didn’t even see the license plate.”

Chris took a long, strong drink and Mycroft waited patiently. “First thing I did was call the police, but they didn’t believe me,” he explained. “Why should they? I don’t know where the house is. I don’t even know if those were the real names of the men who kidnapped me. The whole thing sound delusional. But then I remembered how you told me once your brother worked for the yard-“

“’Works for’ is a strong term,” Mycroft grimaced. “’Assists’ is better but that’s neither here nor there. And now might not be the best time.” John’s flight had come in yesterday morning and Mycroft had been planning on spending the night in Harry’s flat. There was no way Sherlock would look into the case; it’d take a triple locked-room murder to separate the two of them right then.

“But I’ll look into it,” he promised and Chris’s face visibly lit up.

“Will you really?” he pleaded. “I know how you hate legwork-“

“You’re my friend,” Mycroft protested. “And besides, this case intrigues me. I’ll start right away.”

“Thank you,” Chris nearly sobbed, standing up. “Thank you so much. I need to go but please-“

“I’ll keep you in the loop,” Mycroft agreed. “Oh and Christopher,” he called out as the man moved to leave. “Stay low. Those two men might be watching you.”

Chris agreed and nodded and hugged Mycroft and left, looking slightly better. Mycroft waited two minutes after he’d vacated before calling out, “Anthea!”

His assistant peeked her head in. “Yes, sir?”

“Do you have a minute?” he asked, settling himself back behind his desk.

She shrugged. “I’m just doing your work. So if your work has a minute, I have a minute.”

He glared at her. “Hilarious,” he drawled and she merely smirked at him before sitting down on the opposite side of the desk.

“What’s this about?” she asked cautiously, leaning in.

“I rather need a sounding board,” he explained and then laid the case out before her. When he’d finished, he cocked his head and leaned back in his chair, regarding her intently.

“What do you think the relationship between Mr. Kratides and Sophie is?” he questioned.

Anthea considered it. “Lovers?” she guessed

“No,” Mycroft decided. “She called Mr. Latimer the younger ‘Harry’ when she walked it- suggests over familiarity and closeness. No, if anything it is Sophie and Harry who are our lovers. What other relationship then is strong enough to warrant one party coming in from Greece to a country where they do not speak the language?”

“Brother,” she realized. “They must be brother and sister.”

“Yes,” Mycroft encouraged. “And here we see the story. A young woman in Greece becomes close with a man in the UK. Through the internet I expect; it seems to be the norm these days. She comes to see him. Some time later her brother comes over looking for her and is instead kidnapped and threatened to release some property he owns; perhaps he is her legal guardian. Sophie sees him for the first time and our poor Mr. Melas is caught in the middle.”

“Brilliant, sir,” Anthea acknowledged. “But how do we find them?”

Mycroft considered the problem for a minute before the solution came to him suddenly, like a bolt of lightning. “Airline records. Look up flight tickets into England from Athens in the last four months purchased under the name Sophie Kratides.”

“Four months?” Anthea pressed.

Mycroft nodded. “Enough time for her brother to grow concerned and come looking for her, but short enough that they would not have met staying in the same house until last night.”

Anthea seemed awed by his deductions, though she hid it well. The whole business was exhilarating; he felt practically on fire. Mycroft understood suddenly why on earth his brother went to so much trouble with this. It felt almost as good as sex.

“And what do I do with this information once I find it?” Anthea asked.

“Watch the CCTV footage of the airport on that day. She would have had to use a passport which means there’s a picture of her somewhere. Find it, find her in the airport, and follow her. She’s a rich woman flying to a country where she speaks very little of the language about to meet the man she’s only ever spoken to online. If you’re this Mr. Latimer and you’re seeking to reassure her, what do you do?”

“Pick her up at the airport,” Anthea finished breathlessly. “Which means we’ll have-“

“A silence plate number,” Mycroft grinned. “Trace it to a person, trace that to a property, and we can start hunting.”

“You do realize sir, this will involve me hacking a large number of secure information sites,” Anthea noted, standing up.

“Do you object to that?” Mycroft pressed.

Anthea grinned wickedly up at him. “No sir. Only getting myself properly excited.”

Mycroft commended himself internally once again for having hired her. “Good. Now leave me,” he instructed. “I have a phone call to make and it will not be pretty.” And with that he let his fingers drift to his mobile, ignoring Anthea leaving in favour of bringing up Greg’s work number.

 

In the end he waited until Anthea had traced the name to a property in Beckenham before he made the call. He waited though three rings before a rough voice answered the phone.

“DI Lestrade,” Greg’s voice said and this wasn’t fair. He wasn’t still supposed to feel like this after so many months, after nearly four years. That wasn’t fair.

“Gregory?” he checked, more to announce himself than because he was unsure and the choke on the other line was surely a product of Mycroft’s over-productive imagination.

“Mycroft,” Lestrade affirmed. “What’s going on? Everything alright?”

“Everything is quite well, thank you,” he answered primly and then could have kicked himself. He was acting like a primary schoolboy asking a girl to the dance. “Do you have a minute?”

“A minute? Yeah, it’s a slow day,” Greg said and Mycroft could just imagine him, leaning back in his chair with the sort of nonchalance that the DI did everything with.

“Excellent. There’s a car waiting outside your office, if you wouldn’t mind seeing me now,” he said succinctly and heard something crash on the other end.

“Christ,” he thought he heard Greg mutter. “There really is a bloody black car- alright. Be there in a bit,” he said, ringing off, and Mycroft set the phone down gently and sat back to wait.

Greg’s arrival was a rather hurried one, with Anthea shooting him wide-eyes looks over Lestrade’s shoulder. But soon enough the DI was sat in front of his desk with a cup of coffee in his hands, gazing around a bit wide-eyed.

“Cushy,” he noted, sounding pleased. “I always knew you’d do well for yourself.  Told you so enough times.”

He had, curled up on their couch or sat around the kitchen table and surely that wasn’t allowed, bringing up their old relationship? But Mycroft just bit his tongue and thought of Chris. This was for him.

“I’m afraid I need your help,” he said and then laid out the case before Greg. The inspector listened intently, leaning forward on his thighs, coffee ignored on the desk.

“So the only thing left now is to drive up to the house,” he finished. “I figured it was best to have an officer of the law with me to make the proper arrests and carry a gun. Or a taser at the very least,” he corrected, unsure if Lestrade was one of the few armed police men.

“Sounds like all this is more up your brother’s alley,” Lestrade noted, shifting in his chair.

“John is in town,” Mycroft offered as an explanation and Lestrade nodded, understanding immediately.

“Let me just call in to let the office know I’m aiding in a citizen’s arrest, or whatever arrangement this is,” he joked, pulling out his mobile. “Also, we really should pick up that interpreter friend of yours. If we’re trying to rescue someone, it might be best to have someone who can understand him.”

Pleased by this sudden flash of intellect from the inspector, Mycroft smiled at him as best he could. Greg smiled back and it made Mycroft’s insides go slightly funny, made his heart clench, and this really wasn’t fair anymore.

He called the car around and soon enough the two men were in the back of the town car on the way to The Montcalm. They left the driver outside and both rushed in to the lobby. It was exhilarating, all this running and intrigue, and Mycroft considered exercise for a long, long moment before deciding it was a decision for another day.

Greg was saddling right up to the front desk and flashing his badge. “DI Lestrade,” he said authoritatively. “You have a guest, Mr.-“

“Melas,” Mycroft supplied and Greg nodded.

“Kindly ring up and tell him he’s wanted in the lobby,” he requested and the receptionist looked stricken.

“Mr. Melas just stepped out,” he quavered. “Two men came to get him.”

Mycroft felt his insides freeze. “Did they leave names?” he pressed and the receptionist shrugged helplessly.

“They mentioned them. Some kind of Game of Thrones name, like Lannister or something.”

 “Shit,” Mycroft cursed in a mutter as Lestrade thanked the man for his time and followed Mycroft out of the hotel to the car. “We’re too late,” he worried as they slid back into the car. “The kidnappers must have him. We’ll need-“

“To hurry,” Lestrade agreed and then shouted the address through the glass to the driver. The car started again but Mycroft could not stop worrying at the edge of his suit jacket.

This was why he didn’t do this. It was different in politics, just a matter of saying the right words and knowing the right people. And if there were actual lives at stake- they just looked like numbers on a page. This here was messy and complicated and he _knew_ Chris and the Kratides had first names-

“Stop worrying,” Greg said, snapping him out of his reverie with a warm hand on his thigh. “It’s gonna be alright.” The contact felt like it was burning through his trousers and leaving marks on his skin and this was going to be a long car ride.

One hour later they were still stuck in traffic on the A201. It had gradually gotten darker outside in the two hours since Mycroft had called Lestrade from his desk and gathered him on this mission and the DI looked nervously at his watch.

“Shit, I shouldn’t have left the kids,” he muttered, glaring at the darkening sky. “If I’d known we’d be gone so long I’d have called Caroline to watch them tonight.”

That sentence sounded wrong. “Wait, why isn’t Caroline with them?” Mycroft asked slowly, unsure what he was missing here.

Greg stared at him with wide eyes belaying complete and utter surprise. “You don’t know? You honestly don’t know?” he checked and Mycroft’s expression seemed enough to convince him because he went on. “Caroline and I split, properly. Divorce papers and everything over a year now. When you were in Edinburgh, I think.”

God, this wasn’t happening. There was no way in hell Greg had managed to get divorced and Mycroft hadn’t _known._ Quickly, he thought back to their coffee meeting after the caterers six months previously. He hadn’t thought to check if the man was wearing a ring- why on Earth would he, Lestrade’s marriage was not exactly something he needed to be reminded of. But they’d been split even then; he’d tortured himself through coffee with a very single, very available man he still desperately wanted- damn everything and everyone.

But Mycroft couldn’t imagine how to articulate any of those thoughts. All he managed to choke out was, “Why?”

“It was my fault this time,” Greg confessed, not making eye contact. “I was in love with someone else.”

That took longer than it should have to sink in. Suddenly, the air in the car seemed too thin. Mycroft couldn’t breathe. “No,” he whispered as the car jolted into movement.

Greg lifted his head finally _finally_ and met his eyes. There was pure vulnerability in those eyes and pain too- self-inflicted pain. Mycroft knew just what that looked like. “Yeah,” he whispered back, their breathing the only sound aside from the smooth rumble of the car.

“Shit.”

“Yeah,” Greg agreed and then suddenly they were laughing. Mycroft wasn’t sure if they were desperate laughs or disbelieving laughs or something in-between but he felt himself lean in, felt their shoulders brush, felt them both fall apart next to each other.

“Why didn’t you say anything?” Mycroft demanded, trying to refocus. “Why didn’t you talk to me?”

“I didn’t deserve to talk to you,” Greg said honestly and there was the pain. “I was awful to you, I was basically abusive. I work crimes Myc, I know what abuse looks like. I couldn’t do that to you. Not again. And you were off in Scotland probably shagging some fabulously good looking guy who makes my annual salary a month-“

“I haven’t shagged anyone,” Mycroft blurted out and then could’ve hit himself. “Since we split. I couldn’t bring myself to do it,” he clarified, as though that made it better.

“So you’re still-“ Greg asked, unable to finish the question but Mycroft heard it all the same. _So you’re still in love with me too?_

He wanted to say no. He wanted this to end up as nothing more than an embarrassing conversation that they’d both pretend to forget about. But Greg was sitting next to him, completely vulnerable, and that had to mean something. It had to be proof of something. “Yeah,” he answered, softer than he knew he could, and it felt like giving his heart away all over again.

“You’re telling me we’ve been in love with each other across a bloody border for years now and have done nothing about it?” Greg pressed, incredulous.

“That would appear to be the case,” Mycroft said, trying for a bit of levity but it fell dead between them. The space between them was rapidly shrinking and Mycroft had never wanted to kiss anyone so bloody badly as he did right in that moment. There was unmistakable lust in Greg’s eyes, he recognized it like one might recognize an old friend, and his hand shot out, firm against Greg’s chest.

“This is an awful idea,” he insisted, trying not to let himself get distracted by the feel of Greg’s warm body beneath his palm.” This is a terrible idea.”

“I know but I can’t…not,” Greg confessed and Mycroft understood that blindingly.

“I guess that’s what love is,” he tried softly. “You do really…stupid things because you have to,” he said, struggling to make sense of his own mind and he could feel Greg nearly vibrating beneath his hands. He took them off and put them in his lap, never breaking eye contact.

“If we do this,” Greg started, licking his lips unconsciously and Mycroft traced the motion with his eyes. “ _If_ we do this, we need ground rules. Careful ground rules.”

“I agree,” Mycroft said, watching Greg’s mouth hazily. Greg took his hand and tipped Mycroft’s chin up so they locked eyes again before removing it, his expression nothing but serious.

“First, we are equal. Communicating equals. None of this older than you shit we pulled last time,” he started and that sounded bloody lovely.

“I make more than you do anyway,” Mycroft noted and Greg’s eyes crinkled.

“Yeah, none of that either,” he insisted, his mouth betraying his amusement before he locked it down and continued. “Second rule, you have to meet my kids.”

That had not been what Mycroft was expecting. “What?”

“You heard me,” Greg said firmly. “They are a huge part of my life and it was wrong of me not to introduce them to you the first time around. This is not an affair; if we do this it’s all strictly visible, over the table, clean shit. “

“I hate kids, Greg,” Mycroft reminded him. “You know I hate kids.”

“You’ll get over it,” the inspector informed him, arms crossed, and Mycroft gave in.

“Fine,” he sighed and then tried a rule of his own. “Three, we keep our flats. For now,” he offered and Greg nodded emphatically. “We should do this slowly. Very, very slowly. We went too far too fast. It killed us.”

“You’re right,” Greg smiled at him fondly, eyes turning soft and near velvet. “Bloody genius.”

“Any other rules?” Mycroft prompted, trying to keep from getting lost somewhere in that gaze.

“None that I can think of,” Greg said, his voice husky and rough.

“Can I touch you now?”

“Yes, oh god yes,” Greg near moaned and then they were kissing. It was like no time had passed at all- Greg’s mouth tasted exactly as it had the very first time they’d kissed but with less nicotine and more coffee. They kissed like their lips were desperate lovers reuniting, trying to reacquaint themselves with one another, and Mycroft needed to _remember_ , needed to run his tongue over every tooth and gum and bite down on Greg’s lower lip and see if he still-

“Ehem,” a voice came from in front and they nearly sprung apart, Mycroft halfway off Greg’s lap and halfway to the floor. Their driver smirked at them. “Sorry to interrupt sir, but we’re here.”

Mycroft hadn’t even noticed the car had stopped moving.  “Right yes, thank you Max,” he said stiffly, opening the side door and climbing out. “Wait for us here.”

“Yes sir,” Max smiled knowingly and Lestrade followed him out of the car, walking behind him to the house. The property had an extensive front garden and Mycroft understood how Chris might have thought they were out in the country proper.

“Looks like the birds have flown the coop,” Greg noted, staring at the dark windows and noting the tire tracks leaving the compound.

“Not entirely,” Mycroft insisted, running up to the house. “Those tracks indicate a small car, probably only seats five comfortably- which would be consistent with the car the Latimers have. Hard to believe both men, Sophie, and their two bound prisoners would fit in neatly along with all their luggage. They left someone behind.”

The front door was locked shut but Lestrade broke it down in a surprisingly arousing display of strength. Now was not the time to dwell on that though, and Mycroft instead bounded up the stairs and past the suit of armor, following the low sound of moans.

When he got to the door that sounded the loudest, he opened it and then had to step back as black smoke poured out.

“Shit, the house is on fire,” Greg swore, grabbing Mycroft’s arm, but the younger man just covered his mouth and backed away, letting the room air out.

“It’s charcoal,” he explained, coughing. “It’ll clear in a minute.” Once the smoke had dissipated slightly, Mycroft rushed in to take hold of the scene.

Two men were bound and gagged on the floor. Through the lingering smoke, Mycroft couldn’t tell which man was which so he gathered the nearest man into his arms and pulled him out. Greg emerged a moment later with the second man in his arms and Mycroft saw the man he’d pulled out was Christopher.

“Call 999,” Mycroft instructed Greg needlessly as he started CPR. Greg pulled out his mobile and started dialing as he searched for a pulse on who could only be Mr. Kratides. “Yes emergencies, this is DI Lestrade. I’m at-“

Mycroft stopped paying attention as Chris spluttered to life under his mouth, coughing his lungs out. Mycroft could have hugged him.

“I told you I was straight, you pillock,” he hacked out and Mycroft laughed in spite of himself, giving in to the urge to rub Chris’s back. The Greek man leaned into him, breathing in gasps through his cleared mouth and clutching desperately to Mycroft’s leg. Suddenly, he shot up and looked around wildly.

“Paul! Where is Mr. Kratides?” he demanded and Mycroft looked over to where Greg knelt by the older man’s body, holding his wrist gently. The DI met his eyes and shook his head sadly.

“I’m so sorry,” he answered and Chris slumped forward in Mycroft’s arms.

“I want to go home,” he whispered into Mycroft’s shirt. “Can we go back to London now?”

“Yes,” Mycroft promised as the sound of sirens filled the air. He could see the flashing lights through his window and suddenly he was exhausted too. “Let’s go home.”

* * *

 

 

“They grabbed me at the hotel,” Chris told them as they helped him settle back into his hotel room. The paramedics at the scene had cleared him of smoke inhalation and he was breathing fine. He’d come back with them in the town car, his hands shaking subtly against Mycroft’s thigh.

“Put the gun right to my back and ordered me to walk,” he recollected and Greg recorded his statement. “As soon as I got into the car, they shot me with this sedative. I woke up on the floor of that room, unable to breathe.” He closed his eyes wearily, taking in a long breath. “Did you figure out what happened to Sophie?”

“We sent out a bulletin with her passport picture and details,” Lestrade filled him in. “Now all we can do is wait and search. If she went with the Latimers voluntarily, we don’t have much hope.”

Chris fell back into his bed with a sigh. “I always wanted a job with excitement but this was a little more than I bargained for,” he joked and Mycroft rubbed his arm, aware of how Greg’s eyes tracked his movements.

“Guess I better call in sick tomorrow,” he said, trying a smile, and Mycroft handed him his mobile.

“Do be in touch,” Mycroft offered and Chris nodded.

“I will be,” he promised. “Oh and Mycroft, thank you. You saved my life.”

“I guess this is why you wanted to be my friend so badly all those years ago,” Mycroft joked back and Chris’s face brightened.

“What can I say, I’m clairvoyant,” he laughed and then waved genially as Mycroft and Greg closed the hotel door behind them.

They rode the elevator in silence and walked out of the hotel. The town car was parked right in front but Greg turned to him in the night air, lit up by a streetlamp.

“About before,” he started. “I want it. That is, if you want it-“

“I have wanted little else for nearly four years,” Mycroft confessed and saw the tension ease out of Greg’s back as he took Mycroft’s hands in his.

“Can I call you? Tonight?” he checked and Mycroft nodded. “I have so much to tell you.”

“Only if you’ll let me take you out tomorrow,” Mycroft agreed. “For lunch.” More causal than dinner, closer than coffee. If they were going to take it slow, it would be the Mycroft version of slow.

“I would love that,” Greg agreed a bit breathlessly. It was too easy, this- falling back into their old patterns. Mycroft had to shake himself of it. This wouldn’t be their old patterns. It would be a real relationship, a public one, an honest one. And a slow one. No blowjobs in the bathroom on the first date. Just…this.

“Goodnight,” Mycroft murmured, letting himself fall into one short, closed-mouth kiss that bred a second, slightly deeper one before pulling back. “Call me.”

“I will,” Greg promised and then Mycroft stepped back into the car as Greg hailed a cab. No chance for backseat snogging sessions. Not yet, anyway.

They were going to take this slowly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just...I need a moment.  
> I hope you're all happy. I'm happy. This is all I ever wanted, honestly. It went exactly where I wanted it to go, which is new. There will probably be like one or two more chapters and an epilogue but yeah. We're winding down people.


	16. Chapter 16

“You’re what?!” Harry raged at him across her kitchen counter. Mycroft sat back carefully in one of the chairs that surrounded that metal “island” as his best friend leaned in dangerously.

“I told you Harry-“

“No, no. You’re not this stupid,” Harry shook her head, clenching her fists. “That man wrecked you. He ruined you. You are not actually voluntarily letting him back into your life again.”

Mycroft took a sip of his tea. “We have a date on Thursday,” he informed her. It was sooner than expected and not at all soon enough. As soon as Mycroft had walked through the door of his flat that fateful night, his mobile had rung. They’d both crawled into their respective beds at close to four- so absorbed had they been in catching each other up and murmuring the things they’d wanted to say to each other for four years.

“You’re a masochist, that’s the only explanation,” Harry near sobbed. “Clara, tell him how stupid he’s being,” she demanded as her pyjama-clad wife padded into the kitchen, mug in hand.

“I think it’s cute,” the brunette shrugged and Harry near exploded.

“You are no help at all!” she cried as Mycroft mouthed “Thank you.” “Ignore her, she’s still asleep.”

“No, but it is,” Clara explained, pouring herself another cup of tea. “Greg’s like his great love or something. His one great love. You don’t normally get a second chance with people like that. It’s beautiful that they found each other again. You say he's changed?"

Mycroft nodded. He thought about Lestrade coming to his mother's funeral even though it would be awkward because it was the right thing to do. He thought about the detective sitting down with him in a coffee shop, single for the first time in four years, and not saying a word about it because he didn't want to press Mycroft, didn't think he deserved it.

And Mycroft had changed too. The years out of London had changed him- so had his brother, and John, and Harry, and all the people he'd learned how to love. His loving was easier now, less suffocating, less controlling. He was better now. They both were.

"I mean, no one's going to blame you if you don't take him back," Clara went on in that soft way of hers. "We'll be thrilled, frankly. But it's not about us, or how it looks. It's about you and your happiness. Chase your happiness, Myc. Even if it doesn't make sense to anyone else. Even if we call you stupid for it. You only get this one life- it's better to spend your time being happy, rather that right."

There was silence in the kitchen after that as Clara mixed in milk and Harry studied her contemplatively. He knew what she was thinking, about her and Clara and the forgiveness that had gone on between those two women that didn't make sense from the  outside but made them both better people. She turned back to Mycroft with a soft look on her face.

“You really never got over him, did you?” she asked gently

“I fell in love,” he struggled to excuse and maybe because she was his best friend or maybe because love in itself was a rare occurrence for the genius, Harry took his hand across the marble. They didn’t say another word until Clara cleared her throat and said,

“Anyone want eggs?” As it turned out, they all wanted eggs.

 

“It’s still so weird, being out with you in public,” Mycroft murmured as he and Greg sat down to dinner on their, technically, fourth date- if you didn’t count the lunch as a date. “Not having to worry about who sees us.”

“God, I want everyone to see us,” Greg rumbled, taking his hand across the table. “I’d mark you if I could- property of Greg Lestrade.”

Mycroft laughed, happier than he’d been in ages. “I don’t remember you being so possessive the first time around,” his remarked, picking up a menu.

“I wasn’t a lot of things the first time around,” Greg admitted and Mycroft set the menu down to meet his gaze.

“We both weren’t,” he assured him. “The timing was wrong. We tried to be too much to each other and didn’t give each other enough of anything.”

“Lucky us we get a second chance then, yeah?” Greg grinned impulsively at him and Mycroft smiled back, warmth spreading through his chest.

“Most definitely,” he agreed and set to ordering.

Midway through the meal their unused hands were linked on the table and their feet were slowly pushing each other back and forth. Not quite footsie, but not so innocent either.

“I have my kids next weekend,” Greg spoke up softly, as though fearful of broaching the subject, and Mycroft carefully schooled his face into neutrality. This had been part of the rules; he was not allowed to be disgusted. “I was hoping we could all get lunch or something?”

“Sounds acceptable,” he nodded and blinked, surprised, when Greg glared at him.

“None of that,” the inspector admonished, squeezing Mycroft’s hand. “None of that hiding your feelings from me crap. Be honest, I can take it.”

Mycroft tried again, pausing to arrange his thoughts in a less insulting manner. “Kids have simply never been my…area,” he tried.

“Kids are absolutely no ones’ area until they have them,” Greg promised. “I’ll brief them beforehand. It’ll be alright. Their mom is with someone else too; the concept has been explained to them. And you can be charming.”

“I can fake charming,” Mycroft corrected but Greg shook his head.

“You’re not faking right now,” he pointed out and then nudged Mycroft’s foot with his own. “And I can assure you, you’re being _very_ charming.”

Mycroft flushed. “That’s different. It’s you.”

“And they’re my kids,” Greg smiled. “Rugged charm and good humour runs in the family. You’ll love them.”

Greg looked spectacular in candlelight, all soft edges and earnest eyes. Mycroft felt himself give, cave in, and he offered a small smile back.

“I shall try,” he promised and Greg beamed at him.

Mycroft’s flat was near enough to the restaurant so Greg offered to walk him home. And it really was his flat now; Sherlock had sold him his share of the apartment and had bought a ghastly little two-bedroom in Westminster. What he and John were planning to do with the second bedroom once the soldier came home was beyond Mycroft, but it bore cause for concern.

They walked side by side conversing lightly, of one of Greg’s current cases and Mycroft’s recent struggle with the diplomat from Azerbaijan. But soon enough they were at the door of Mycroft’s Mayfair flat and Greg was gazing at him with hot eyes.

Their last four, five if you counted the lunch, dates had ended with little more than kissing. The previous one had ended with what might be counted as serious necking in the back of a cab but so far no party had found themselves in the other’s apartment. But here they were, on the steps of Mycroft’s flat, and the pull between them felt like two overcharged magnets straining towards each other.

“Do you want to come up?” Mycroft asked, suddenly hoarse.

Greg shook his head. “I shouldn’t,” he cautioned and Mycroft tried what he hoped was a reassuring smile.

“No sex,” he promised. “Just tea.”

“Well I should hope not _just_ tea,” Greg protested as Mycroft unlocked the door. “Maybe a biscuit at the very least.”

Mycroft laughed and led him up to the living room. “Make yourself at home,” he called, heading into the kitchen. “You remember where everything is?”

“Basically,” Greg called back, heading to the bathroom by the sound of it. Mycroft set the kettle to boil, Sherlock had taken the electric kettle when he’d left and Mycroft had let him, and set about selecting tea.

He was just deciding between Coconut Pouchnog and Oolong Tea when a pair of arms wrapped around his waist. He hadn’t heard the bathroom door open and somehow that made this all more dreamlike, less real and consequential.

“I know we said we were going to take it slow,” Greg murmured into the back of his neck and Mycroft went from interested to bloody fuck aroused in six seconds.

“Let go so I can turn around,” Mycroft choked out and then they were kissing, Mycroft’s back pressed against the counter edge and Greg in every sense of his space. The inspector seemed to have a careful grasp of his waist so Mycroft settled for cupping Greg’s head, cradling it gently as he let his mouth open into another person’s, let them invade him utterly.

Greg’s hair was coarser than he was used to, going gray beneath his fingertips, but he was so warm, so fucking warm, and Mycroft wanted to lose himself in this, in the feel of Greg sucking on his lower lip and skimming his tongue into his mouth in loose, shallow trusts that turned deep and pornographic and so staggeringly full of intent that Mycroft had to pull back to gasp, resting his forehead against Greg’s as they struggled for breath.

“Gregory,” he moaned, helplessly caught and the man melted against him. He noticed his hips for the first time, canting upwards in tiny, shivery circles as they made contact with Greg’s groin and he stifled an agonized sigh.

“I want to take you to bed,” Greg choked in his ear, nipping at the lobe, and it pleased Mycroft to know the inspector was just as overcome as he was. “I want to undress you and remember you, relearn everything I missed. I want to hold your hips down, slide inside of you and ruin you, Mycroft. God, I want to unravel you.”

This was very much the opposite of going slow but Mycroft did not give a flying fuck right then. ”Not gonna last that long,” he predicted in a whimper. “It’s been too long; you stick a finger in me and I’ll come.”

“God, your voice,” Greg protested and then the kettle behind them started to shriek as it steamed and the tension snapped, both of them collapsing against each other and giggling breathlessly. Mycroft turned in Greg’s embrace to switch the flame off and Greg nuzzled the back of his neck, the urgency gone.

“We will have sex,” he promised after a long moment and whether he was reassuring Mycroft or himself, the genius wasn’t sure. “Soon. But not yet, yeah?”

“Agreed,” Mycroft assured him, pouring the tea, before he risked another venture. “Would you care for some rather heavy “petting” on the sofa?”

“Excellent idea,” Greg agreed and Mycroft congratulated himself on buying a new sofa since the sex incident with his brother and partner. The new thing rather needed a christening.

 

But that was how Mycroft found himself panicking in his office that next weekend, puttering around his desk like a man confused.

“Did you send off the files to-“ he worried and Anthea merely glared at him from the doorway.

“Files have been sent, your meeting was postponed, I’ll check in with Shanghai and your phone’s off till ten. You’re free,” she promised, gliding in on black pumps to help smooth his suit. “You’re fine. You look good.”

“You’re a woman, Anthea,” Mycroft pointed out and his PA rolled her eyes. “What does one do with children?”

The former spy looked ready to deck him and Mycroft genuinely feared for his life. “What, just because I’m a woman I know how to deal with kids?” she shot back and Mycroft backpeddaled.

“I only meant, one might have more maternal instincts-“

“I used to kill people for a living,” she reminded him. “Maternal instincts were never really my thing. But here,” she said, backing away and coming back with two small dolls in gift bags. “Gifts never hurt anyone’s chances.”

Mycroft took the bags gratefully. “Make a note to give yourself a raise,” he told her and she grinned wickedly.

“Already done,” she smirked and then pushed him towards the door. “Go. Or you’ll be late.”

Greg was waiting for him outside the flat he rented near Hendon. Two little figures were running around outside the stoop and as he grew closer, Mycroft realized they’d drawn squares on the sidewalk in chalk and were playing skipping games. Greg stood as soon as he noticed him and strode out to meet him.

“I’m so glad you came,” he whispered, hugging Mycroft close and then he let go to call the girls over. “Kaley, Beth, come here.”

They looked everything and nothing like the little girls he’d meet four years earlier. Kaley’s brown hair was pulled back in a neat pony and she was a gangly nine year old- limbs still figuring themselves out. Beth was a darling six, bright angelic blonde curls and open blue eyes in a pink frock. They stared at Mycroft with unabashed curiousity.

“This is Mycroft, girls. Remember we talked about him?” Greg prompted, holding Mycroft’s hand and this was leauges different than their very first meeting.

“He’s like Mommy’s Richard,” Kaley repeated and Greg flushed endearingly.

“Yes, sort of,” he nodded. Beth gazed up at Mycroft, tilting her head.

“Do you and Daddy kiss on the lips like Mommy and Richard do?” she asked and Mycroft had no idea how he was supposed to respond to that.

“Sometimes,” he admitted, deciding to treat them both like very short adults.

Beth considered that information. “I think kissing is gross,” she informed him. “One time at recess, Nancy grace chased Billy Sean Cassidy all around the yard saying she was gonna kiss him and Billy Sean Cassidy ran fast fast like the wind so that she wouldn’t catch him but she did and now he has cooties.”

Mycroft blinked back. “Cooties is not a real illness,” he explained, perhaps a bit harshly.

But Beth seemed fond of his honesty. “That’s what Mommy said. And I think so too cause if it was they’d probabably give you a vaci-vaji- shot that makes you not get sick.”

“Vaccination,” Mycroft supplemented and she nodded encouragingly.

“Yeah, that,” she agreed. Turning to his hands, she asked, “What in the bags?”

Confused by the abrupt change of topic, it took Mycroft a minute to answer the question. “I brought you each a little gift,” he explained, holding the bags out. “It’s nice to bring gifts when you meet people for the first time.”

Beth and Kaley swarmed to the bags and then squealed with delight at the small dolls inside. Greg shot him a serious look, torn between glaring at his partner and smiling over his daughters.

“Now they’re going to expect gifts every time you come,” he chided and Mycroft did not tell him that he was more than willing to give each girl a pony every time they met if it meant they’d like him

Kaley tugged politely on the hem of his cardigan and Mycroft looked down to meet her eyes. “Thank you very much for the present,” she thanked, peeking up at her dad to make sure she was doing a good job. At the responding nod, she nudged her sister until Beth muttered out a “Thank you.”

“I was thinking we could all go to Coram’s Field,” Lestrade suggested out loud to all the parties. “You girls love the park there. And then we could get something to eat after.”

“Yay!” Beth cheered, jumping up and down. “Can you push me on the big swing, Daddy?”

Greg bent down to scoop her up and cuddle the giggling six-year-old to his chest. “Of course, my little princess,” he promised, kissing her upturned face as she laughed. “Shall we go?”

Beth stayed perched on her father’s hip as they marched down the street. But when they got to the corner, Mycroft was surprised to feel a small palm slip into his. He looked down to meet Kaley’s eyes.

“I’m not supposed to cross the street without holding a hand,” she explained but it didn’t change the fact that hers was the smallest hand Mycroft had held in a long time. For a moment he was twelve again and Sherlock was holding tightly to his hand as they crossed the street, secure only in the proximity of his brother’s leg.

It was then that Mycroft remembered he didn’t hate kids. He’d loved Sherlock.

Gently, so gently they could both pretend it didn’t happen, Mycroft squeezed the trusting hand in his and Kaley smiled up at him, moving to cross the street together.

 

“The girls keep asking for you, My,” Greg encouraged over the phone. “Beth apparently told Caroline all about Daddy’s tall friend who pushed her up on the tire swing so high she touched the pole. And Kaley’s been quietly approving.”

“You have remarkably well behaved children, Gregory,” Mycroft praised at his desk, mobile on speaker resting next to a pile of paperwork. The park had been lovely and then they’d all ate together, Beth even offering to share her fries with him. He could manage this once a fortnight.

“Love, I gotta go,” the inspector said, not unkindly. “I got a dead one and your brother’s moving in. Dinner at eight?”

“Sounds perfect,” Mycroft found himself smiling and then rung off, turning back to his papers.

But he was only at them for an hour when the door burst open with barely even a rap and Anthea stood there, face drawn.

“What, is it Russia?” Mycroft demanded, standing up, but the brunette shook her head slowly, holding a single sheet of paper.

“Sir, you told me to keep you informed on all information pertaining to RAMC Captian John Watson,” she began and Mycroft knew exactly where this was going.

“Shot?” he pressed.

“Left shoulder,” she clarified, striding forward with the paper. “Here are his details-“

“Call whatever crack doctors they’re giving him, get him stable and flown back home for better treatment,” Mycroft barked, leaving his desk and pulling on his coat. “I don’t care about money, about favours. Use them now. And call me a car- I need to get to my brother before news does.”

“Yes sir,” Anthea nodded, the very model of efficiency as she swept out of the room leaving a very cold Mycroft in her wake.

They could not lose John. He could not lose John. He’d pushed those boys into each others paths like colliding particles and if something happened- Sherlock-

“Car’s outside, sir,” Anthea informed him from the doorway and Mycroft shut it all down. Now was not the time to succumb to emotion. He needed to be calm, cool and collected for Sherlock. That was his job; it had always been his job.

It was child’s play tracing Greg’s call and then he was driving up to the murder scene- cold and damp. When Greg saw him, Mycroft saw the surprise go through his partner’s eyes and then a warm happiness as he smiled, “Mycroft.”

But Sherlock knew better. “He’s not here for you,” his brother deduced, standing to face him, and Mycroft let forth a weary sigh.

“He’s right, I’m afraid,” he told Greg with a half-smile and turned back to his brother, waiting for him to deduce it. Gentlier than simply saying it, letting him figure it out on his own.

“What do you want?” his little brother pushed and Mycroft bared himself for Sherlock to find the answer in his coat, his arms, the slump of his neck.

He knew the second Sherlock figured it out because he swayed, near collapse, his whole body giving in to shock. “When?” he begged, and Mycroft had never heard him sound so helpless since withdrawal years ago.

“Last night, or this morning if you will,” he answered as succinctly as possible, knowing all the boy craved was information. Still, he tried to be gentle. “He’s still alive.”

 “Where is he?” Sherlock demanded.

“Afghanistan, they had to start en route,” Mycroft filled him in off the details Anthea fed to him not moments ago in the car. “Bullet wound to the shoulder.”

“Which shoulder?”

“Left,” Mycroft said and he could see Sherlock calculating, drawing maps of the human body, charting survival rates. “They’re flying him in tonight.”

The next demand was unsurprising. “Take me to the hospital.”

“Sherlock, he won’t be there for hours-”

“I’ll wait,” and for a moment they were children again. Sherlock the stubborn one and Mycroft the one forced to be rationale, even though it makes him the hated one.

“You’re coming home with me,” he ordered, expecting a riot. “Sherlock-“

“I’d rather sleep on the street,” he protested

“Sherlock, I’ll be the first to know when he lands. You’ll want to stay with me,” Mycroft tried to bargain because there was no way on this Earth he was leaving his brother unsupervised right now. This was a danger night to top all danger nights. But Sherlock read the suspicion in his eyes and turned defensive and angry, blushing with repressed shame.

“As if I was stupid enough to get high when John needs me,” he insisted, but Mycroft did not respond. He didn’t need to. They both knew Sherlock was getting in the car with him and after a beat, he did. Mycroft had them driven back to the flat in Mayfair, Sherlock fidgety and anxious- a royal mess.

First Sherlock paced. Then he began bouncing off the walls. Mycroft finally fed him tea with a light sedative that he didn’t even so much as noticed in his agitated state and soon his brother was drifting off on the sofa. Then Sherlock started to sob, tiny little whimpers in his sleep that tore Mycroft apart like thorns, piercing every inch of him.

He was not made for this.

When the phone call finally came in at four am, it was a relief more than anything. Mycroft woke Sherlock with a brief nudge and then they drove to the hospital to greet John’s overseeing doctor.

They were told John’s in surgery. They were told he’s doing well. They were not told much else.

Mycroft picked then to call Harry. She, naturally, was hysterical and arrived at the hospital around five am, as the sun started to rise. Her mother came nearly three hours later, close to eight- it was a long drive down from the country house. Somehow they all formed a collective bundle outside the trauma unit, no one daring to speak a word as though it could travel through steel doors and distract doctors in surgery.

Harry’s hand found its way into his and he held her, willing her to stay strong. Nearby, Sherlock tried to comfort Cynthia and failed miserably, only ending up upsetting them both ever moreso.

A doctor finally came out around nine and told them John was expected to make a full recovery. It was like a rope snapping, all the tension seeped from the room. Harry curled herself into Mycroft’s chest and sobbed big, shivery things as Mycroft tried to pet her head. They were all right. They would be all right.

There were arguments about who would care for the newly invalid soldier between Sherlock and Cynthia, neither wishing to upset the other, and Mycroft just hoped they might consult the soldier in question first. But visiting hours weren’t for a bit and so they waited, pretending not to notice when Sherlock just disappeared down a hallway.

And then there was a soldier lying in a bed, broken but breathing, with Sherlock wrapped around him so right you'd think every molecule of separation hurt them. John was smiling softly back at him and there was so much emotion and intensity and feelings that Mycroft felt leagues out of his depth. This was never his area.

When he finally crawled home late that next night, Greg as waiting for him in the sofa. He took one look at the perfect, plastered expression on Mycroft's face and rushed forward, holding him tightly.

"C'mere," he whispered in the gruff voice Mycroft had learned to lean on as he held Mycroft's hand and led him to bed. "Let me hold you."

And so Mycroft did, falling asleep wrapped in the arms of someone he realized might just understand him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter: All the drama, all the time. Basically.
> 
> also, it would appear I just can't abstain from writing children. #babysitterproblems


	17. Chapter 17

John went home with Sherlock to the little flat in Westminster after a week’s stay in the hospital. Everyone considered it the closing chapter of a book, the happy ending they’d all been praying for. Even Mycroft felt himself lowering his surveillance and leaving the happy couple alone in their privacy.

That was until he stopped by the flat for a surprise visit and found his brother sporting a bruised eye. The angle was wrong for it for it to have been a forward assailant, there would be other defensive wounds. A bruise like this could only mean-

“Mycroft-“ Sherlock tried, stopping dead in the kitchen as his brother froze in the doorway. “It’s not-“

“I’ll kill him,” Mycroft heard himself hiss. “No, I’ll tell his mother and let her kill him-“

“John didn’t hit me!” Sherlock shouted, defending himself. “Okay, he did. But look Mycroft, really look.”

Mycroft took one long breath to calm himself and then forced himself to _look_. The angle, it was the damn angle. It was an upwards stroke which made sense, John was shorter, but not that much shorter and it was forward like someone leaning over someone and it didn’t make _sense_.

“He has these nightmares,” Sherlock explained softly, uncharacteristically gentle. “PTSD. He strikes out.”

And yes, that made sense, a punch from a prostrated position. That explained it but didn’t make it any better, didn’t excuse the hurt thing living in his brother’s apartment.

Sherlock shook his head, turning scoffish. “Really Mycroft, like I would stay with an abusive partner,” he ridiculed but Mycroft just fixed him with a steady gaze.

“I think you would forgive a lot of things in John Watson,” he said simply and Sherlock was silent at that.

He waited another moment before he couldn’t hold himself back. “Maybe you two should consider a trial separation-“

“I would rather be beaten bloody than leave,” Sherlock growled, turning feral, and Mycroft held his hands up in surrender. But he didn’t back down.

“Just till he gets better-“

“He’s not going to _get better_ ,” his little brother bit off angrily. “This is what we have now and I’ll learn to live with it. I did not wait five years here alone just to run at the first sign of trouble.”

“The man who came back from Afghanistan is not the same boy you fell in love with,” Mycroft suggested gently. “He’s changed. Surely John would understand-“

“He stayed with me through the drugs,’ Sherlock reminded him. “Through rehab and relapse and my rages and selfish breakups. He never left. I’m not leaving.

“And anyway, it won’t happen again,” he added, a bitter note in his voice. “We’re sleeping in separate bedrooms now.”

The iceman felt his very heart twist. “Oh Sherlock,” he whispered but his brother just fixed him with dark eyes that flashed dangerously.

“Leave, Mycroft,” he demanded and then seemed to reconsider. “Please,” he added and that was what did it. Mycroft gathered his umbrella to depart but couldn’t help himself from adding-

“If you ever need anything-“

“I need a lot of things,” Sherlock murmured, not looking up from his fixation on the tile floor. “Nothing you can give me though.” His words haunted Mycroft all the way back to his cold, unfeeling office.

 

* * *

 

Things with Harry didn’t change much with the addition of Greg, just as they hadn’t shifted when she’d started dating Clara. They were busier though, what with Harry’s law firm picking up business and Mycroft with his controlling of the free world.

But Mondays stayed sacred. And so, six months after John came home, they sat back at their favourite café, a salad and an ice tea shared between them.

“How is our little inspector?” Harry asked, stealing a cucumber, and Mycroft shot her a dirty look for tradition’s sake.

“Good, really good,” Mycroft supplied, smiling a little. “He has the girls this week so they were over last night doing homework. Do you know how ridiculously easy third year homework is? It’s no wonder the young are so simple. I’m thinking of making up supplementary work for them, to keep them sharp.”

Harry giggled at him. “You’re practicaly a parent, Mycroft,” she noted and he flushed, uncomfortable.

“I’m looking at it from a purely official position,” he excused. “If I was involved in education, the kind of reforms I would make-“

“You love those little girls, admit it,” she baited and Mycroft shifted in his chair.

Yes, he’d stopped minding when Greg brought the little ones over. And maybe he’d started to look forward to it a little. And maybe he enjoyed the way Kaley turned to him for help with maths and Beth liked to climb into his lap to have stories read to her. And maybe his heart felt a little thrill every time the girls fell asleep on the couch and he had to help carry one of them down to the car.

But that didn’t mean he loved them! He was a Holmes, controller of small governments and not so small governments. “They are a useful tool in regaining Greg’s affection,” he insisted but Harry gave him a knowing look.

“Sure,” she laughed and then suddenly sobered, turning serious. He watched her face curiously as it went from open to guarded and nervous.

“I have something to tell you, actually,” she said in an unshaking tone she was obviously working to control and Mycroft gave her his full attention. She smiled gratefully and went on.

“So Clara and I have been married for a little over three years,” she started carefully and then lowered her eyes, preventing Mycroft from reading what she was saying in her eyes. He read it anyway, two seconds before she said it out loud.

“We want to try and have a baby,” she confessed and this was a big deal, this was big news, and Mycroft supplied his most appropriate smile. Encouraged, Harry added, “Clara wants to carry it, which is fine with me really, and it’s all very exciting.”

“You’ve approached John as a sperm donor, I assume,” he said and was surprised when Harry shook her head.

“John’s in a really bad place now,” she reminded him. “Sherlock didn’t think it was a good idea,” and Mycroft suppressed a surge of anger that his brother had known this bit of news before he had. “And anyway, I kinda don’t want to use my brother’s sperm, you know?” she giggled awkwardly. “It’s artificial insemination and everything but it’s a little weird, my brother and my wife. My Dad is my Uncle and all that.”

Mycroft let out a dry chuckle at the thought of it. “So, you’ll have to start interviewing potential donors,” he advised. “I will help, naturally. Perhaps we can even find one who resembles you, how convienent would that be-“

“I actually had a donor in mind,” Harry blurted out and she was nervous, why on earth was she nervous? “A mate, my best mate actually. Someone I trust explicitly. Someone who’d be perfect for this.”

Mycroft searched his mental database for any of Harry’s male friends who fit that description. “Surely not Gabriel,” he objected bodily. “That man hasn’t an IQ above 110, it’s pathetic really-“

“I’m asking you, Mycroft,” Harry said finally, loud enough it startled Mycroft mid-sentence. It wiped his whole brain, actually, so he could only stare blankly at Harry as she went on. “Clara and I talked it over and we both agreed. You’d be perfect, Mycroft. Say yes.”

It took a long moment for Mycroft’s brain to re-rail itself but when it finally did, he shook his head politely. “I’m…flattered Harry, honestly. But I must decline.”

“But, why?” Harry asked, staring at him uncomprehendingly. “You and Sherlock aren’t having any children, I would’ve thought you’d jump at the chance to see that genius passed on-“

“It is better that way,” Mycroft asserted, folding and unfolding his hands in front of him. “Best that our genetics die with us.”

“I don’t-“

“Harry, you are blinded by your affection and, frankly, undeserved love for me,” he said as simply as he could. “But if you can take a moment to be objective and really look at me, you’ll understand what I’m saying is true.

“I am odd. I am unemotive and unfeeling and have been diagnosed with a host of physiological problems ranging from sociopath to plain and simple psychopathy. I’m on the spectrum at least somewhere and I’ve been called everything from robot to iceman-“

“But that’s not true!” Harry objected bodily. “You feel so much, Myc. You have always been there for me, for Greg-“

“Exceptions to a rule,” Mycroft maintained. “Exceptions it took me decades to make. Look at my brother, Harry, or my mother. For christ’s sake, look at my father. There is something genetically wrong with us, all of us.” He let out a low breath before finishing. “I will not allow you to inflict this curse on an innocent child. I’m sorry.”

Harry was shaking her head across from him and her eyes looked wet- good lord he’d made her cry. This was precisely why he wasn’t fit to be parent material and he opened his mouth to say so when Harry let out a choked noise and spared him a watery grin.

“Let’s not talk about this anymore,” she decided and Mycroft felt such a surge of self-loathing it nearly crippled him.

“Harry, I’m sorry-“

“No, you’re entitled to however you feel,” she assured him, taking his hand across the table. “Just, please Mycroft, know how loved you are. Okay?”

Mycroft nodded, unsure how the sentiment made him feel, and then Harry blotted at her eyes with a napkin, let out a cough, and tried another smile. For a second he could see it, a small baby with unfathomable eyes, and it stopped his heart. But it was wrong, he was wrong.

It would be like playing at Dr. Frankenstein. Some monsters were better off never being created.

“Tell me about work,” Harry ordered as they tried to right themselves. “How are things in Cuba?”

“Dismal,” he supplied and tried to put the matter behind him.

 

* * *

 

And then, somewhere in the mess of Sherlock and Harry and work, he and Greg finally had sex.

 It wasn’t a particularly big deal and it certainly wasn’t planned. It was a Thursday and when Mycroft came home from work, Greg was sitting at the kitchen table doing paperwork. Mycroft had smiled tiredly at him and Greg had smiled back and then Mycroft had made them both tea and sat down on the other side to do a bit of his own work.

Sometime around ten, Greg put his pen down and Mycroft looked up and there, hovering between them like it had been for months, was potential. Only this time when Greg stood and Mycroft came up to meet him, the kiss between them meant something bigger.

There was no necking on the couch; they were grown men. Greg took Mycroft’s hand, their fingers laced tightly together, and then suddenly there were in Mycroft’s bedroom and everything was happening now, right now, and god, Mycroft was not ready for this.

“Breathe,” Greg reminded him and he hadn’t even realized he’d been holding his breath. “It’s just me and you. It’s just us.”

He kissed Mycroft carefully, like they had all the time in the world, with a little nip of teeth and a wet slide of tongue. It was just them alone in the lamplight and then Mycroft found himself horizontal with Greg straddling him as he undid his buttons. The inspector reached into the bedside draw for lube and Mycroft instantly drew the wrong conclusions.

“I don’t think I-“ Mycroft tried to warn but Greg shut him up with a deep kiss before he giggled into his mouth.

“Forgot how much I love doing that,” Greg admitted and then bent to work on Mycroft’s zipper. It was the first time a man’s head had been that close to his cock in, well, ages and it was certainly having an effect. And then his pants were off and Mycroft felt his back nearly arch off the bed as Greg stroked him.

It was clear this whole adventure wasn’t going to take long at all but Greg didn’t say a word, just attended to his own pants- so suddenly it was a brilliant slide of wet, slicked skin against slick skin.  They moved together like an old couple, the way that two people who know each other’s bodies perfectly move together, each giving the other what they need with none of the explanations and whispered requests new lovers have to contend with. But there was a rush and urgency there too, a knowledge that they had not done this in five bloody years and it had been a long, dry wait.

Greg kissed his forehead and his cheek and the skin behind his ear reverently, like he was revisiting holy ground. Mycroft ran trembling fingers up and down his partner’s ribs, reminding himself what the skin there felt like. He was going to need hours, days, to recommit to memory the different textures of Greg’s skin, some of which had changed, but not right then.

Right then was a slow, deep, ride against each other in perfect silence, just the way Mycroft preferred it. As predicted, it was over exceptionally quickly. Greg only got in about a dozen or so long, dragging trusts before Mycroft shuddered and whispered out “God,” as he came. He held his watery thighs tightly together as Greg fell apart in between them and then it was just them, sweaty and breathing.  

 Mycroft turned over and buried his face in Greg’s shoulder. The older man reached around to better hold him and this was a type of pleasant cuddling neither one of them was used to.

“You are beautiful,” Greg murmured into his hair, tracing absent patterns on his back. “I’d stay like this all day if I could.”

“We should move in together,” Mycroft decided and Greg’s hand stilled in surprise. It resumed a moment later and the inspector asked,

“You sure? Separate flats was in the rules.”

“You’re over here nearly every day, what with your spare key,” Mycroft noted. “We can put a bunk-bed in Sherlock’s old room for the girls when you have them.”

Greg nudged him gently so they could lie face-to-face, making eye contact. Even then, even after they’d just met in the basest of ways, Mycroft still found that gaze a touch unsettling; dangerous and wicked in the pit of his stomach. He supposed it was the type of feeling that kept relationships going for years.

“Is that what you want?” Greg checked, a thumb coming up to trace Mycroft’s cheekbones.

He swallowed. “I like the thought of waking up next to you every day,” he confessed and Greg kissed him, unhurried and unloaded.

“Okay,” Greg agreed and it felt like his heart was ready to burst. He wanted to say I love you but what came out was,

“Harry asked me to be Clara's sperm donor.”

Greg let out a dark laugh. “Jesus My, you have not gotten any better at pillow talk,” he joked, sitting up properly and Mycroft felt a bit out of place beside him until Greg reached down and tangled their fingers together.

“Well, what’d you say?” he asked finally.

Mycroft shrugged. “I told her no,” he confessed. “I tried explaining to her that Holmes DNA was hardly the type of thing you inflicted on unsuspecting children but she seemed upset.”

Greg watched him for a long moment with the type of look that meant he was stripping Mycroft raw. It was the type of look Mycroft was accustomed to giving, not receiving, and it reminded him sharply that Greg was first and foremost a Detective Inspector. “You think you’ve got us all fooled,” he said suddenly and a terror Mycroft hadn’t experienced in years suddenly flared up, bright and vivid in his chest. “You think you’ve tricked all of us into believing you’re an average sort of man, a normal sort of man. But you’re wrong Mycroft. We were never fooled.”

The lamp was on, they’d never shut it off, and in the soft, yellow glow, Greg leaned close. “We’ve always known exactly who you were, Mycroft,” he said softly, not letting go of the genius’s hand. “It’s why we love you.”

And that was precisely when Mycroft began crying.

“Ah shit, My,” Greg cooed apologetically, wrapping his arms around him as Mycroft cried softly and silently, small shuddering things. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”

“I have never quite loved anyone the way I love you,” Mycroft choked out between silent gasps and Greg kissed him soundly on the lips, utterly ignoring the general wetness of his face.

“You want to do it, don’t you?” Greg prompted and Mycroft managed a nod. “So do it. The baby will be brilliant. But let’s hope it has Clara’s nose, yeah?”

And then Mycroft was laughing through tears and Greg was holding him so tightly it was as though he’d never let go. _This is what it means to be loved_ Mycroft realized suddenly and painfully, like a readjustment of his heart. It wasn’t bright declarations in the rain or frantic sex in a bathroom stall or flowers and a dinner date.

It was crying in bed after having sex for the first time in five years and knowing someone was going to hold you even when your face was covered in snot and tears. It was laughing about it. And it was the blindingly true knowledge that this was your life now, for however long you wanted it to be.

It was brilliance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've gotten sappy in my old age. Forgive me.  
> There will be an epilogue, my dearests. You can expect it by the end of the month. Now if you'll excuse me, I need to go cry in a corner over characters I didn't even create. Kisses.


	18. Epilouge

Three Years and four months later

Mycroft woke slowly to the sound of his mobile ringing. Next to him, Greg moaned in half sleep and tightened his grip around Mycroft’s waist but the genius struggled up and reached over to pick up the phone.

“Hello?” he asked blearily, sitting up, and Harry’s voice cheerfully answered.

“Good morning, handsome,” she greeted. “Did I wake you up? Sorry, you’re usually out and about by now.”

“In a shocking turn of events, work didn’t call me last night,” Mycroft explained as Greg turned over and the sheet followed him to expose a long, lean back. “So I’m having a bit of a morning in.”

“Oh, that’s nice,” Harry said and Mycroft let his hand slowly trace a line down Greg’s spine. The inspector shivered with the contact and this was looking more and more promising by the second. “Just wanted to give you a heads up; Clara went into labor a little bit go.”

“What?” Mycroft nearly jumped and Greg was awake immediately, years of training kicking in. “Are you at the hospital?”

“Calm yourself,” Harry giggled. “We’ve got time. Her contractions are like, twenty minutes apart. We haven’t even gone to the hospital yet. Just letting you know, if you have time in the afternoon and wanna stop by, we plan on going to Royal London.”

Mycroft felt his pulse slow down but the news did nothing for his heart. It’d been a long nine months; after the initial insemination and then miscarriage, Harry and Clara hadn’t been sure they wanted to try again. But it’d only taken a little over a year until they’d decided to give it another go and here was a life about to enter the world.

_My child_ , thought Mycroft headily, and then felt guilty. All three had been very careful never to refer to Mycroft as the ‘father.’ They didn’t want any confusion for little peanut just who his or her parents were. Mycroft had only come to one pre-natal visit and had hung up the sonogram on the fridge the way any proud uncle would.

But he couldn’t really shut out the fact that a baby he’d helped create, however artificially, was being a born. _The Last Holmes_ , he’d think if he was being sentimental. “We’ll definitely be by around lunchtime,” Mycroft promised and Harry made a noise of agreement.

“I’m gonna hang up now, I gotta go call John,” she excused. “And then we’re gonna get smoothies because that’s what Clara wants and she’s pushing out a human being later today so she gets to make the breakfast decisions. Talk to you later.”

“Do enjoy,” Mycroft called and Harry hung up. He set the phone down and turned to Greg who was watching him questioningly. “Clara’s gone into labor but Harry says she’s got awhile,” he filled his partner in and Greg nodded.

“Those things take ages,” the inspector said knowingly. “Kaley was something like eighteen hours. And Beth was more than a day.”

Mycroft winced at the thought. Turning his attentions back to Greg, he smiled softly. “Good morning,” he whispered and Greg crawled across the bed so they could kiss.

“Morning,” Greg smirked against his mouth. “I am so sore from last night; you must be feeling it too.”

He was, in his lower back and his thighs and it was a glorious type of soreness. “What time do you have to be at work?” he checked, moving his mouth to Greg’s jaw.

“I have the day off,” Greg crowed, letting his fingers play in Mycroft’s hair. They both had a vague idea where this was going. After three years together their mornings off generally took a predictable, although not unenjoyable, turn. “What about you?”

“Not sure,” Mycroft admitted and then his mobile buzzed again and they chuckled into each other. “Speak of the devil,” he muttered and reached back across to pick up.

“Morning Anthea,” Mycroft answered, shifting them both so he could better listen. Greg placed an absent-minded kiss against his sternum and Mycroft felt it down to his arches.

“Good morning sir,” his assistant answered succinctly. “And good morning to the inspector as well.”

“Morning!” Greg called back; he was lying close enough that he could hear her through the phone.

“Anything I need to rush in for?” Mycroft checked and he could almost hear his call being minimized as Anthea brought up charts and schedules on her ever-talented mobile.

“Nothing yet sir,” she informed him. “You have a meeting with the prime minister at ten and I’ve taken the liberty of rescheduling your after-lunch appointments to tomorrow so you’ll have more time at the hospital later today.”

“That is bloody creepy,” Greg blurted out, shaking his head. “How the hell does she know everything?”

“Do you really think I’d hire just anyone as my assistant, Gregory?” Mycroft admonished, laughing, before turning back to the phone.  “Thank you very much, Anthea. Are you at the office yet?”

“No sir,” Anthea’s voice came in a little muffled and he could well imagine her in her apartment, wandering in and out of the kitchen. “Should I be?”

“No need,” Mycroft assured her. “Enjoy the morning and I’ll see you at ten. Give regards to the fiancé for me, if you please.”

“I will sir, thank you,” he could hear her smile and then they both rung off. Greg nudged in closer and Mycroft set the phone down so he could give the inspector his full attention.

“Fiancé?” Greg asked skeptically, rolling on top of Mycroft. “I pity that poor soul. No secrets from the wife in that relationship.

“They suit each other rather well,” Mycroft promised, leaning up hopefully for a kiss and smiling back when he got it. “He’s very dedicated; it’s charming. Now if that’s enough about my assistant for the morning-“

“More than enough,” Greg agreed and kissed him deeply.

By the time they came out to the kitchen, mostly dressed, it was just past nine. “What can I feed you?” Greg called from by the refrigerator and Mycroft set to turning the coffee-maker on.

“Eggs would be nice, maybe,” Mycroft answered back. “I’ll see to toast.”

The kitchen was quiet for a few minutes as Mycroft set the bread to toast and Greg cracked eggs in a bowl. And then suddenly, Greg chuckled over the frying pan. Mycroft turned to him, confused, and his partner only smiled back.

“We’re so domestic,” the inspector laughed and Mycroft could see the humour in it. “No one woulda figured us for the type, would they? Not with you and your hands in everyone’s pies and me with my penchant for triple homicides and serial killers but here we are. You’re making coffee and I’m working on a fry-up. In ten minutes we’ll sit down and eat, you’ll tut over something in the news and I’ll check my phone out of habit. You’ll go to work and I’ll pop out to the shops and maybe clean a bit. Pure domestic.”

Mycroft let out a chuckle of his own. “I guess this is what growing up feels like,” he suggested and then suddenly his gaze turned worried. “You’re not unhappy, are you?”

Greg looked up to his face and then immediately rushed over to take Mycroft’s hands. “Unhappy?” he questioned, making the word itself sound absurd. “I just had a magnificent bout of morning sex. In a minute, I’m going to eat toast and eggs with the man I love and then I’m going to go buy some new pillows for my daughters’ room because they destroyed their usual pair in a brilliant pillowfight we all had the last time they stayed over. Now why exactly would I be unhappy?”

Mycroft kissed him in lieu of an answer and they could have stayed like that for hours, just exchanging soft, wet kisses, but the smell of smoke brought them back to their senses and had Greg rushing to the stove. In the end, breakfast took a bit longer to prepare than usual but the toast was still good.

“I’ll pick you up from work around noon and we can swing by the hospital together,” Greg said as Mycroft set to putting his shoes on. “Did we give them a baby gift yet?”

“At the baby shower,” Mycroft reminded him, standing up. “Crib and pram set. They loved it.”

“Right, right, I remember,” Greg promised, leaning in for a kiss. “Oh, by the way, Christmas card came yesterday from your friend Chris. Sends his regards and congratulations on the nephew or niece.”

“Where is he now?” Mycroft asked, kissing Greg quickly and gathering up his coat.

“New York, it looked like,” Greg supplied. “With the UN You should call him when you get home. Have fun at work. Give regards to the PM from NSY.”

“Of course,” Mycroft chuckled and headed out the door. Anthea greeted him as he came in to the office and he smiled back at her as he picked up his invoices.

“Send the Prime Minster in when he gets here,” he instructed. “And let me know immediately if either Harry, John or my brother call.”

“Yes sir,” Anthea assured and Mycroft set to skimming his reports. Even so, immersed as he usually was in what he loved doing, Mycroft kept finding himself distracted by thoughts of Harry and Clara. What must they be up to; how the baby was doing. He was surprised to suddenly realize that instead of listening to the minister explain the last parliament session, he’d been thinking up possible meals to have sent over to the new family later on that week.

It was a relief then when Greg came by and took them both to the hospital. Harry had texted him a room number somewhere after eleven and they found Clara’s parents and Ginny already set up in the waiting room.

“Mycroft,” Clara’s mum greeted and he strode over to take her hands.

“So good to see you,” he said, using his best public smile. “Congratulations, of course.”

“To you as well,” she smiled. It was clear where the Italian girl got her looks from; her mother was a classic sort of beauty from a time well passed. Mycroft opened his mouth to inquire after her health when there was a noise from somewhere up the hall and Mycroft turned to find Cynthia Watson coming towards him.

“If it isn’t the smartest Holmes boy,” she called and Mycroft let himself be wrapped up in a warm and rather maternal hug.

“Don’t let my brother hear you say that,” he grinned into her hair and she chuckled back. “How are you doing?”

“Good, good,” she promised, brushing off the question and cupping his face instead. “How are you doing, love? Feeling good?”

“Wonderful,” Mycroft assured her, submitting to the affection as she kissed his cheek. “My brother and John-“

“On the way,” she informed him. “They got caught up in some case; you know those two. John said something about twins in a locked attic, it all sounded very exciting. Oh and hello Greg dear; and here I thought the boys were with you.”

“Hello Mrs. Watson,” Greg smiled kindly as she swatted at him.

“Cynthia, Greg; must I keep reminding you?” she bantered and Mycroft led them all to sitting down in the worn, blue chairs that formed a bit of a semi-circle a few paces away from the room.

“How’s the house?” Mycroft inquired politely and Cynthia beamed.

“It’s so beautiful this time of year,” she told them happily. “I have my hands full maintaining it but I get a little help from some of the village boys. It’s a little bit lonely up there, honestly, but I’ve got my classes down in the village and next door Mrs. Havisham’s started up this little bridge club that I’m thinking of joining. But it’ll be quite lovely staying with Harry for the next little while. I’ve the time to help out, Clara’s parents still have a child at home you know, and I already started cooking meals-“

At that moment, Harry stuck her head out the door and called out a quick “Yoohoo.” Immediately, all parties rushed to her. She was in blue scrubs and gloves and her face looked a little ashen, but she was grinning like a jewel thief on the escape.

“Hey everyone,” she smiled. “Can’t stay out long, Clara’ll have my head. Just letting you know we’ve started transitional labor so sit tight.” And with no more than a wink at Mycroft, she ducked back inside.

“That means she’s got about fifteen minutes to an hour till the baby pops out,” Greg explained to Mycroft as Sherlock and John chose that minute to rush into the waiting room.

“Hi sorry, what’d we miss?” John asked breathlessly as he came over to kiss his mum. Mycroft’s brother met his eye sullenly from across the room and made it very clear he was only here under duress. Nobody paid him much mind.

“Baby’ll be here any second now,” Cynthia informed him excitedly as John walked over to greet Clara’s parents and then hug Ginny, who stood up from her undignified sprawl in jeans and a band-shirt to consent to the affection.

“Hey Uncle John,” she greeted and he reached out to ruffle her dyed-blue hair.

“Hey Ginny; what are you up to now?” John checked as his partner scoffed at the small-talk. “Secondary, yeah?”

“Yep,” Ginny nodded proudly. “A-levels and all that. I’m doing Biology; I think I wanna be a nurse.”

“That’s awesome,” John encouraged, not at all condescendingly. “If you have any questions about medical school, I’m always available.”

Mycroft watched with a pleased smile on his face. It was a previously unknown joy, watching his brother-in-law so happy and well-adjusted to civilian life.  It’d taken over a year but somehow, the former soldier and Sherlock had managed to pull off a full recovery. If the half-hidden lovebites on his baby brother’s neck and the promise rings sparkling on each man’s finger were anything to go by, it was a _very_ successful recovery as well.

They were all so absorbed in catching up, they almost didn’t notice the nurse that came outside to talk to them all. But then Sherlock nudged John and suddenly they were all listening, silent and spell-bound.

“Congratulations Harry and Clara family,” the nurse grinned, clearly fond of her job. “It’s a girl.”

Cynthia looked prepared to burst into tears and Clara’s mum was holding her hand, their arms tight around each other.

“Mother and baby are healthy,” the nurse went on. “They’re taking visitors now but only one at a time; the baby needs to breathe. So you all can sort out amongst yourselves who goes in first.”

Everyone’s eyes turned to the two new grandmothers who turned to each other and immediately offered each other the first spot in. But then John spoke up from the back of the huddle.

“I think Mycroft should go in first,” he suggested. It was clear why he was offering, everyone present knew it, but he added on, “He’s Harry’s best mate,” for propriety’s sake. It was a silly reason, and Mycroft felt himself begin to flush at the sudden attention. But the surrounding adults began nodding in agreement.

“Quite right,” Cynthia summed up and Mycroft held his hands up.

“Oh no, I couldn’t-“ he tried to protest but Greg nudged him knowingly.

“Go in and hurry up; the rest of us want a turn to see the little princess,” he ordered and, blushing, Mycroft followed the smirking nurse through the hospital room door.

The lights had been dimmed in an effort to help everyone relax and in the center of the room was Clara in bed. Her normally flawless hair was a frizzy mess and her cheeks looked flush and warm but there in her arms was a small, blanketed bundle that she could not take her eyes off of.

Harry came over from the side of the bed to hug him. “I’d hoped they’d send you in first,” she confessed in his ear and he held her tightly.

“Congratulations,” he found himself whispering and she let out a slightly hysterical giggle against his cheek.

“I’m a mom,” she gasped, a bit disbelievingly. “I’m really a mother. And she’s so beautiful, Myc. She’s perfect; thank you so much.”

“Thank you,” Clara echoed from the bed, looking up tiredly to smile at him and Mycroft felt entirely overwhelmed and undeserving of so much love in one room.

“Do you want to hold her?” Harry asked and Mycroft had not realized until that moment how desperately he needed to hold that soft bundle in his arms. Wordlessly, he nodded and Harry walked over to pick the little baby up from her wife and bring her to him.

“Put your arms out like I have them,” Harry instructed and suddenly there was a human creature enveloped in his arms. She was wrapped up tightly in the white and pink blanket but her face was visible and Mycroft was awed by how _miniature_ everything was. A dark lock of hair rested on her forehead and a tiny pink mouth was open and breathing.

“She’s so beautiful,” Mycroft heard himself say without actually thinking the words out and the baby chose that moment to blink her eyes open. They were his eyes; they were his brother’s eyes- Holmes eyes blinking up at him from the face of his best friend’s baby.

“We named her Victoria,” Harry spoke up and suddenly Mycroft could not breathe. “Vivi for short. Clara and I agreed that since she is part Holmes and you and Sherlock certainly aren’t having any children, someone should carry on the name.

“And she really did sort of bring us together, Victoria,” Harry went on, holding her wife’s hand as Mycroft could only stare at the small, helpless being in his arms. “By bringing you and me together, Myc. This, she, wouldn’t exist without you.”

“Thank you,” Mycroft choked out and he was surprised by how hoarse his voice was. “I should go; your mothers really want to come in-“

Harry came over to take the baby, _Vivi_ , back and it took Mycroft a long minute to let go. He could see years into the future; Vivi riding her first tricycle, black hair in messy pigtails. Taking her to the park and watching her climb the jungle gym all on her own. Her first pet. Her first love. Mycroft had never wanted a child, had mostly found them repulsive and sticky, but he could easily see himself rearranging his life to fit in his new _niece_. It didn’t even frighten him- she was so tiny, surely she couldn’t take up that much space-

He released her into her mum’s arms with a soft caress to her check- god her skin was soft- and then kissed Harry before leaving. He found he could not string together enough words to say anything else. When he left the quiet room, he found the whole of the family gathered around the door waiting for him.

“What’s she like?” “Is Clara okay?” “Any news?” Cynthia, John, Clara’s parents and Greg were all suddenly demanding.

But Mycroft only had eyes for his brother. He was a genius; he knew how these next few moments would play out. He would tell Sherlock and he would have the pleasure of watching his brother’s face shatter. They would not hug, it would take more than a name to prompt that, but it would be perhaps as intense as they’d gotten in years.

Cynthia would cry, she was so close to tears already, and John would let slip a small smile. Greg would reach out to squeeze his hand, wordlessly understanding what he needed. Clara’s family would take a longer minute to comprehend, but they wouldn’t matter very much in those brief moments. There would be kisses and hugs and then the two grandmothers would hurry in to see their new granddaughter. John and Ginny would hold their niece. There would be waterworks.

 But none of that mattered yet. What mattered was his baby brother and too many years of teaching an ancient rhetoric. Once upon a time he’d sat his not yet five-year-old brother down, a sprightly child still desperate for love and affection, and had taught him _caring is not an advantage_. It was a mistake he’d spent the rest of his life trying to figure out how to atone for and here, at last, he finally could. That was the sort of gift babies gave- renewal, forgiveness, new starts. Hope.

He found Sherlock at the back of the pact and did not look away from those same eyes as he said,

“They named her after Mummy.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay. I'm fine. Crying? No, I'm not crying! You're crying! Stupid.  
> No but honestly I just- I have a lot of feelings. You guys are the absolute best. This started out as just a one-shot idea in my head and now look at us- eighteen chapters and almost a year. And it's really all because of you guys. You who were patient when I didn't post a chapter for weeks (months), you who were supportive, you who left comments and kudos, you who corrected my grammar and you who just read. I love you all more than can be properly expressed. This story is more yours than mine, so, thank you.  
> Now, group hug everybody. We did it.  
> As always, all my love xoxoxoxo- Shay


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